



Class _X-^ 
Book___£lLei 



TENNYSON'S POEMS. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 

ii 

POET LAUREATE. 

COMPLETE EDITION. 

ILLUSTRATED BY 



GUSTAVE DORE, !!'. HOLM AN HUNT, CLARKSOX STANSFIELD, 

J. E. MJLLAIS, R. A., M. E. EDWARDS, 

AND OTHERS. 



NEW YORK : 
THE MANHATTAN PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO. 

1878. 



\>i*>«* >^ Vi" 



r 



n{ 






CONTENTS. 



o):- 



Address to the Queen 
Juvenilia. (Published 183c 

Claribel. A Melody 

Nothing Will Die 

All Things Will Die 

The Kraken . 

Lilian 

Isabel 

Mariana 

To 

Madeline 

Song. The Uwl 

Second Song. To the same 



Recollections of the Ar 

Ode to Memory . 

Song 

A Character 

The Poet 

The Poet's Mma 

The Sea- Fairies 

The Deserted House 

The Dying Swan 

A Dirge 

Love and Death 

The Ballad of Oriana 

Circumstance 

The Merman 

The Mermaid 

Adeline 

"My Life is Full of W 

Sonnet to J. M. K. 

The Lady of Shalott an 
The Lady of Shalott 
Mariana in the South . 
Eleanore 

The Miller's Daughter 
Fatima 
CEnonc 



abian Nighl.-- 



eary Days " 



u other Poems. (Published 1832); 



(V) 



CONTENTS. 



Lady Clara de Vere ••........ ^i-- 

The Sisters ... -,» 

T° ■.■.■.■.■.■.'.' 34 



The Palace of Art 



New Year's Eve 
Conclusion . 



35 



The May Queen ........... -59 



40 
41 



42 



The Lotos- Eaters .......... 

Choric Song ........... 43 

A Dream of Fair Wuiiieii .......... 45 

Margaret ............ 49 

The Blackbird ............ 50 

The Death of the Old Year 50 

ToJ. S 50 

"You a'sk me why, tho' ill at ease" ...... .51 

" Of old sat Freedora on the heights "'....... 52 

<' Love thou thy land, with love far-brought" ...... 52 

The Goose ............. 53 

English Idyls and othek Poems (Published 1842): — 

The Epic 57 

Morte d' Arthur . . . . . . . . . . -57 

The Gardener's Daughter ......... 61 

Dora 65 

Audley Court ........... 67 

Walking to the Mail 68 

Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake ......... 69 

St. Simeon Stylites . . . . . . . -7' 

The Talking (Jak 74 

Love and Duty ............ 77 

The Golden Year 79 

Ulysses 80 

Lock.sley Hall 81 

Godiva ............. 86 

The Two Voices ........... 87 

The Day-dream . . . . . . ' . . . -92 

Prologue 92 

The Sleeping Palace .......... 92 

The Sleeping Beauty .......... 93 

The Arrival 93 

The Revival ........... 94 

The Departure ........... 94 

Moral 94 

L'envoi ............. 95 

Epilogue 95 



CONTENTS. 



Aniphion .....•••• 
Will Waterproofs Lyrical Monologue 

'To , after reading a Life and Letters 

Lady Clare ........ 

Si. Agnes' Eve ........ 

Sir Galahad ........ 

To E. L. on his travels in Greece .... 

The Lord of Burleigh ■ . 

Edward Gray ....... 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. A Fragment 
A Farewell ........ 

The Vision of Sin ....... 

"Come not when I am dead" .... 

The Eagle. Fragment ...... 

" Move eastward, happy earth, and leave" 

" Break, break, break. On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 

The Beggar Maid 

The Poet's Son^ . , . . . . . 



• 95 


96 


■ 99 


100 


. loi 


lol 


. . .102 


102 


103 


. 103 


104 


. 104 


107 


. 107 


107 


. 107 


107 


108 



The Pri.\ce.s.s 



F,NOCu Akden ............ 157 

\vlmer'.s Field .wij other Pkk.ms: — 

Ayimer's Field, (1793) 171 

The Brook, an Idyll, . , . . . . . . . , 182 

Sea Dreams •■■■........ 185 

The Golden Supper •■-....... 189 

Lucretius . . . . . . . . . . . .19,4. 

Ode on the Death of Wellington ........ 197 

The Third of February, 1852 ......... 200 

The Charge of the Light Brigade ........ 201 

Ode Sung at the Opening of the Inlernational F.AliilMtion .... 202 

yi\ Memori.\m 205 

M VUD AND OTHER PoEM.S : — 

^laud 241 

Tlij Letters ............ 259 

The Daisy ............ 259 

To the Rev. F'. D. Maurice 261 

Will 261 

Idylls of the Klvg: — 

Dedication -.......,.,.. 265 

The Coming nf Arthur . . . ' . . , . . . . 266 



VIII 



CONTENTS, 



Garcth and Lynette . . . . 

Geraint and Enid .... 
Merlin and Vivien . . . . 

Lancelot and Elaine 

The Holy Grail 

Pelleas and Ettarre 

The Last Tournament 

Guinevere ..... 

The Passing of Arthur 

Epilogue to the Queen 

The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh 



In the Garden at Swainston .... 

Additional Poems: — 

The Grandmother ....... 

Northern Farmer, (Old Style). .... 

Tithonus 

The Voyage ........ 

In the Valley bf Cauteretz ..... 

The Flower ........ 

The Islet 

Requiescat ........ 

The Sailor-Boy ....... 

The Ringlet 

A Welcome to Alexandra ..... 

A Dedication ..... 

The Captain, a Legend of the Navy . 

Three Sonnets to a Coquette .... 

On a Mourner ........ 

Song ......... 

Song 

Experiments: — 

Boadicc'a ........ 

In Quantity ........ 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse 
On Translations of Homer ..... 

The Voice and the Peak ..... 

Miscellaneous : — 

The Northern Farmer, (New Style). 

The Victim ......■■ 

Wages .....•••• 

The Higher Pantheism ....•■ 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 



415 
417 
417 
418 
418 



CO.VTEA'TS. 

Queen Marv 

Harold 

UnAVOWED rOEMS: — 

Tiiubuctoo ........ 

Poems (Published in the Edition of 1S30, and omitted in 
Elegiacs ........ 

The " How" and the " Why" .... 

Supposed Confessions of a Second-raie Mm^i 
The Burial of Love . . .... 

To . . . . . • 

Song . . ... 

Song ..... ... 

Song . . ..... 

Hero to I,can.i ... , . 

The Mystic ....... 

The Grasshopper ...... 

Love, Pride, and ForgelfuhK-- . . . 

Chorus in an unpublished Drama, wntttn very early 
Lost Hope ....... 

The Tears of Heaven ...... 

Love and Sorrow ...... 

To a Laiiy Sleeping ...... 

Sonnet ........ 

Sonnet ......... 

Sonne! ........ 

Sonnet ......... 

Love ......... 

English War-Son;^ 

National Song ....... 

Dualisms ........ 

"We are Free ....... 

01 peovTEi ........ 



IX 

427 
490 



Ediu.)p..~ i 



Poems (Published in the Edition of 1S33 '"^"'^ ountLed in 
Sonnet ........ 

Buonaparte ....... 

Sonnets . . ' . 

The Hesperido ■. ...... 

Riisalind ........ 

Note to Rosalind 

Song ......... 

Kate . ' . 



lat£ 



Edition.s 



X CONTENTS. 



Sonnet on the Polish Insurrectiun ........ 546 

Sonnet on the Russian Invasion oi" Poland ....... 546 

Sonnet ............. 546 

O Darling Room ........... 546 

To Christopher North ....,..,. 547 

Fugitive Poems: — 

No More ,,........,.. 547 

Anacreontics ............ 547 

A Fragment ............ 547 

Sonnet ........... . 54S 

Sonnet .,...,....,,. 548 

The Skipping Rope .......... 548 

The New Timon and the Poets ......... 548 

Literary Squabbles ........... 549 

Stanzas ............ 549 

Britons, Guard Your Own ......... 549 

Hands all Round ........... 550 

The War ..... . . . . 551 

1865-1866 . . 551 

On a Spiteful Letter .... . . , -55' 

Prefatory Poem to the "Nineteenth Century" ... , . 551 

jViontenegro ....... ... 552 

To Victor Hugo , , . . ...... 552 

The Window, or the Songs of the Wrens: — 

1. On the Hill 55J 

2. At the Window 553 

i- Cone ! 534 

4. Winter 534 

5- Spring 554 

6. The Letter 554 

7. No Answer ........... 554 

8. No /Vnswer 555 

9. The .A.nswer ....... ^ . . 555 

9B- Ay 555 

10. When ? 555 

11. Marriage Morning .......... 555 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Page 
Frontispiece, ......•••••••' 

" Then said she, ' I ain very dreary.'' ^^ — MARIANA, ..... 7 

" Life and Thought have gone away."— 'X\i^\^v.?'VM.T:v.\y\loxi'=,Y., ... 14 

*' Out flew the web and foated -cvide:'— '\:vl\'.\.^\^^ ov '^\\M..O'V\\ ... 24 

" /';;/ to be Queen 0' the .J/rtj."— The May Queen, . . , . • 39 

"(9 rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more:' — The Lotos-Eaters, 44 

" And loosed the skatter''d casque, and chafed his hands." — Mortk d'Arthir, 60 

"For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose" — The Gardener's L) mi; i iter, 63 

" O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake." — The Lake, .... 69 

" Then fled she to her inmost bower." — GODIVA, ...... ^^6 

" The shrill bell rings, the censer swings." — Sir Galahad, .... loi 

" Bitterly weeping I turn''d away." — Edward Gray, ..... 103 

" In robe and gow7i the King stept down.." — The 1>kgc;ar Maid, . . . 107 

"But high upon the palace Ida stood with Psyche'' s babe in </;-«/."— -The Princess, 143 

" Lnfamiliar Arno, and the dome of Brunelleschi." — The ]U<ook, . . 1S4 

" I'air ship, that from the Italia7i shore." — In Memoriam, .... 207 

King Arthur. — TiiE Coming of Arthur, ....... 266 

" lie saw t7!io cities in a thousand boats ."—'SlKRiAy and Vivie.n, . . . 322 ' 

" And the dead, steer'd by the dumb." — Lancelot and Elaine, . . . 343 

" Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy ." — Guinevere, .... 3S3 

" An arm rose up from out the bosom of the lake." — The Passing of Arthi k, 391 

The Battle-Scene in Harold. — HaIvOLU, ........ 523 

" All in the bloomed May." — .Song, ........ 536 



TO THE OUEEN 



Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that uttered nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 

And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long. 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day! 

May children of our children say, 
" She wrought her people lasting good; 

(0 



TO THE QUEEN. 



" Her court was pure; her life serene; 

God gave her peace; her land reposed; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

*' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree, 

W^hich kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad based upon her people's will. 

And compassed by the inviolate sea." 

March, 1851. 




JUVENILIA 





n 



JUVENILIA. 

POEMS PUBLISHED 1830, 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 
I. 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall: 
But the solemn cak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial. 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone: 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone: 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the stream be aweary of flowing 

Under my eye? 
When will the wind be aweary of blowing 

Over the sky? 
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? 
When will the heart be aweary of beating? 

And nature die? 
Never, oh'! never, nothing will die; 



The stream flows, 
The wind blows. 
The cloud fleets. 
The heart beats. 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die; 

All things will change 
Through eternity. 

'Tis the world's winter; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago. 
Earth is dry to the centre. 

But spring a new comer — 
A spring rich and strange, 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round. 

Through and through, 
Here and tliere. 
Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be tilled with life anew. 
The world was never made; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range; 
For even and morn 
Ever will l)e 
Through eternity. 
Nothing was born; 
Nothing will die; 
All things' will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing 

Under my eye; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds are 
blowing 
Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are fleet- 
ing; 

(5) 



LILIAN. 



1830 



Every heart this May morning in joyance is 
beating 
Full merrily; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow; 
The wind will cease to blow; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat; 
For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come nevermore. 

O vanity! 
Death waits at the door. 
See! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and merrymaking. 
"We are called — we must go. 
Laid low, verj^low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 
O misery! 

Hark! death is calling 

While I speak to ye. 

The jaw is falling. 

The red cheek paling. 

The strong limlis failing; 

Ice with the warm blood mixing; 

The eyeballs hxing. 

Nine times goes the passing bell: 

Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 

Had a birth. 

As all men know 

Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the shore; 
For even and morn 
You will never see 
Through eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come nevermore, 
For all things must die. 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper deep; 
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 
His ancient, dreamless, uiunvadcd sleep, 
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunliglits lie;. 



About his shadowy sides: above him swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

height; 
And far away into the sickly light, 
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell 
Unnumbered and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering 

green. 
There hath he lain for ages and will lie 
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, 
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; 
Then once by man and angels to be seen, 
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface 

die. 



LILIAN. 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, faiiy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Claps her tiny hands above mc, 

Laughing all she can; 
She'll not tell me if she love me; 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs. 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me. 

Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simpk 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The bal)y-roses in her cheeks; 

Then away she flies. 



Prythee weep. May Lilian! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me. May Lilian: 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treljle laughter trilleth: 

Prythee weep. May Lilian. 



Praying all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 




" Then said she, ' I am very dreary. 

He IV ill ttot coine,^ she said ; 
She wept, '^ I am aweary, aweary, 

God, that I were dead.' " 

Mariana, Page 7. 



1830 



MARIANA. 



7 



ISABEL. 



Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but 
fed 

With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent 
fane 
Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread. 
Madonna-wise on either side her head; 
Sweet lips whei^eon perpetually did 
reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowli- 
head. 



The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime; a prudence to with- 
hold; 
The laws of marriage character'd in 
gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' unde- 
scried. 
Winning its way with extreme gentle- 
ness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; 
A courage to endure and to obey; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life. 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

III. 
The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in purer 
light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward 
brother: 
A leaning and upbearing parasite. 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen 
quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial 
orbs 



Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each 

other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not 
another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

" Mariana in the moated grange. 

Measure /or Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-pots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all: 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden -wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: 
Unlifted was the clinking latch; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

Her tears fell with the dews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven. 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement- curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 
The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her: without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 

And o'er it many, round and small, 
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 



MADELINE. 



1830 



Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark: 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 
He Cometh not," she said; 
' She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweaiy, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd. 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that 1 were dead!" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
WJiich to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I am very dreary. 

He will not come," she said; 
She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 
O God, fliat I were dead!" 



Ray- fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine: 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: 

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 

Can do away that ancient lie; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die. 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 

III. 
W^eak Truth a-leaning oifher crutch, 

W'an, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 

Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; 
Like that strange angel which of old. 

Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



TO 



Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 

The knots that tangle human creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 

The heart until it bleeds, 



MADELINE. 



Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range. 
Sudden glances, sweet end strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : hut who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
Wliether smile or frown be sweeter. 

Who may know? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light- glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother; 



1830 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 

III. 
A subtle, sudden tlame. 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances; 
When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 

But, looking fixedly the while, 
All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thou blushest angerly; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 

SONG. THE OWL. 
I. 
W^HEN cats run home and light is come. 

And dew is cold upon the ground. 
And the far-off stream is dumb, 
And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round; 
Alone and warming his five wits. 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merry milkmaids click the latch, 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay. 

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 

Twice or thrice his roundelay. 

Twice or thrice his roundelay; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 



Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 



W^hich upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 

That her voice untuneful grown, 
W'eais all day a lainter tone. 



I would mock thy chant anew; 

But I cannot mimic it; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-0-0. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARA- 
BIAN NIGHTS. 
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy. 
The tide of time flow'd back with me. 

The forward -flowing tide of time; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citrun-shadows in the blue: 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side: 
In sooth it was a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did 1 turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
Prom the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



1830 



My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
P"or it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung; 
Not he: but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumbcr'd: the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind: 
A sudden splendor from liehind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 



Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead. 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame: 
So, leaping lightly from the boat. 
With silver anchor left afloat. 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound. 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound. 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time. 

In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the cai-ven cedarn doors. 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Bioad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time, 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 



1830 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony. 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 

Pure silver, underpropt a rich 

Throne of the massi%'e ore, from which 

Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 

Engarlanded and uiaper'd 

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 

With merriment of kingly pride. 

Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Haroln Alraschid! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present; O, haste, 
Visit my low desire! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day; but robed in soften'd light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have 
kiss'd. 
When she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 

HI. 

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open 
breast 



(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest 
wind 
Never grow sere, 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from 

thee 
The light of thy great presence; and the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven with the million stars which 

tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could 

dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth, I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting 
vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliff's, aloof descried: 
Come from the woods that belt the gray 

hill-side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn. 
The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- 
land. 
O, hither lead thy feet! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled 
folds. 
Upon the ridged wolds. 



A CHARACTER. 



1830 



When the first matin-song hath waken'd 

loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame- work of wrought 
gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, 
And foremost in thy various galL-ry 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days: 
No matter what the sketch might be; 
Whether the high field on the bushless 

Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor- 
mous marsh. 
Where from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity, 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. 
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender: 
Whither in after life retired 
From brawling storms, 
From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy reinspired, 
We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind, 



And those whom passion hath not blinded. 
Subtle -though ted, myriad- minded. 
My friend, with you to live alone. 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne! 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 



A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bow^ers: 

To himself he talks; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers: 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul 

grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath. 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, "The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Vet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty: that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass, 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 

Then looking as 't were in a glass. 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair. 

And said the earth was beautiful. 



1830 



THE POETS MIND. 



13 



He spake of virtue: not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by: 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold: 
Upon himself himself did feed: 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born. 

With golden stars above; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
scorn. 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and 
ill. 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will. 
An open scroll. 



Before him lay: with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were 
headed 
And wing'd with flame. 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue. 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth 
anew 
Whepe'er they fell, behold. 



Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower of gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breath- 
ing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
■ caven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark up- 
curl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burning 
eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes, 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in 
flame 
WlbDOM, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake. 



Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder. 

So was their meaning to her words. No 
sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his 
word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 
I. 

Vex not thou the poet's mind 
With thy shallow wit: 

Vex not thou the poet's mind; 
For thou canst not fathom it. 



'4 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



1830 



Ck-ar and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear: 

All the place is holy ground; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy tlower 
Of the laurel shrubs that hedge it around. 
The Bowers would faint at your cruel cheer 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird 

chants. 
It would fall-to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder: 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn. 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven 

above, 
And it sings a song of undying love; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full. 
You never would hear it; your ears are so 

dull; 
So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt the green brink and the running 

foam. 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 

prest 
To little harps of gold; and while they 

mused. 
Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away ? 

tly no more. 
Wbither away from the high green field, and 

the happy blossoming shore? 



Day and night to the billow the fountain 

calls; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea: 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill 

swells 
High over the full-toned sea: 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me: 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the 

sand; 
Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be: 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we: 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet 

words; 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden 

chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore . 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, 

mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they! 



All within is dark as night: 
In the windows is no light; 
And no murmur at the door. 
So frequent on its hinge before.' 




" Lifd and lliottglJ have gone away 
Side by side, 
Lcavins^ doors and tuindows wide.'''' 



The Deserted House, Page 14. 



1830 



A DIRGE. 



15 



Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away: no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away: for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us! 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 

Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept. 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh: 
Above in the wind was the swallow. 
Chasing itself at its own wild will. 
And far thro' the marish green and still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yel 
low. 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole, 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 



But anon her awturjubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; 

As when a mighty people rejoice, 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps 

of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roU'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar. 
To the shepherd vv'ho watcheth the evening 

star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering 

weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing 

bank. 
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among. 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 
I. 

Now is done thy long day's work; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast. 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

II. 
Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

III. 
Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



i6 



THE BALLAD OP OKIANA. 



1830 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. ' 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



The gold-eyed kingcups fine; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there: 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grav 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering 

light 
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 
And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes; 
When, turning round a cassia, full in view 
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his sight: 
" You must begone," said Death, " these 

walks are mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheery vans for 

flight; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death; 
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 
But I shall reign for ever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 



When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with 

snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana: 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing. 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana: 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana: 
She saw me fight, she heard me call. 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana: 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana: 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana! 

Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 



iSzo 



7HE MERMAN. 



17 



They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana? 
How could I look upon the day? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay. 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana ! 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek. 

Oriana: 
What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand! O cursed blow! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea. 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
Two graves giass-green beside a gray 

church -tower 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; 



THE MERMAN. 
I. 
Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone. 
Singing alone 
Under the sea. 
With a crown of gold. 
On a throne? 



I would be a merman bold; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of 

power; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-i'iower; 
And holding them back by their flowing 

locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and 
high, 

Chasing each other merrily. 



There would be neither moon nor star; 
But the wave would make music above us 

afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells. 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles 

and shells, • 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 

All night, merrily, merrily: 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 



ADELINE. 



1830 



Oh! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair. 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl 
On a throne? 

11. 

I would be a mermaid fair; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
" Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would 
fall, 
Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry sea bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In thelfcidst of the hall; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in 

at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I woulcl wander away, away, 
I would fling on each side my low-flow- 
ing locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks, 
We would run to and fro, anil hide and seek : 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson 

shells 
Whose silvery spdces are nighest the sea. 



But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would 

leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from 

the dells; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would 

list 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and llat- 

ter me, 
In the purple twilights under the sea; 
But the king of them all would carry me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the branching jaspers under the sea: 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently, 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and 

soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of 

the sea. 
All looking down for the love of me. 



ADELINE. 



Mystery of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor ail divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest. 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore thcjse dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon. 
Thou that faintly smilest still. 

As a Naiad in a well. 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline? 



1830 



SONNET TO J. M. A'. 



19 



What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline? 
For sure thou art not all alone: 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet wooes 
To his heart the silver dews? 

Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise? 
W'herefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His cu. tains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
Dripping with Sabsean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn. 
Breathing Light against thy face, 



While his locks a-drooping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays. 

And ye talk together still. 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



My life is full of weary days, 

But good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways: 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof. 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go: 

Shake hands once more: I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 

Thy voice, and answer from below. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 
My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church -harpies from the master's 

feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee; 
Thou art no Sabbath -drawler of old saws, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
To humming of the drowsy pulpit drone 
Half God's good Sabbath, v, hile the worn- 
out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a 

throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 

PUBLISHED 1832. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

PART I. 
On either side the river lie 
Long fiek's of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tovver'd Camelot; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
(Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the faiiy 

Lady of Shalott." 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls. 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an amljling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights. 

And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

(23) 



24 



7'HE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



1832 



A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzhng thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. , 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
On Inunish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



In the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 



The broad stream in his banks complaining 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot: 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; 
For ere she reach'd upon the title 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony. 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, " She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 




" Out flew the -weh and floated wide ; 
The mirror cracFdfroin side to side ; 
■ The eitrse is come tipou me,'' cried 
The Lady of Shalott.'" 
The Lady cf Shalott, Page 24. 



1832 



MARIANA hV THE SOUTH. 



25 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines: 

A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 

An empty river-bed before, 

And shallows on a distant shore, 

in glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan. 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn, 

And " Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

She, as her carol sadder grew. 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear. 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine. 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night andmorn"; 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and 

morn?" 

And "Ah," she said," but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would l)leat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt; 
Till now at noon she slept again. 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn. 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone. 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 



Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke: the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty- white; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth. 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be 
true. 
To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away. 
So be alone for evermore." 

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn!" 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her 
moan, 
"The day to night, the night to 
morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung. 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan. 
" The night comes on that knows not 
morn. 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



26 



ELEANORE. 



1832 



ELEANORE. 



TiiY dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English 
air, 
For there is nothing here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward 

brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood. 

Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades, 
But thou wcrt nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades: 
And flattering thy childish tliought 
The oriental fairy brought, 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills. 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore 

The choicest wealth of all the earth. 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 

To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze. 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens 
cull'd— 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down 
With the hum of swarming bees, 

Into dreamful slumber luU'd. 



Who may minister to thee? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape thicken'd from the light, and blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 

Sleepeth over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowy shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere 
Eleanore! 



How may full-sail'd verse express. 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore? 
Every turn and glance of thine. 
Every lineament divine, 
Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow. 
That stays upon thee? For in thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies. 
To stand apart, and to adore. 
Gazing on thee for evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore! 



Sometimes, with most intensity 
Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
Slowly awaken'd, grow S(j full and deep 
In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 
I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 
But am as nothing in its light: 
As thro' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Ev'n while we gaze on it, 
Should slowly round his orb, and slowly 
grow 



i 



1832 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



^1 



To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself lo what it was before; 
So full, so deep, so slow. 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 

Roof'd the world with doubt and fear. 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
Grow golden all about the sky; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation: 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land. 
With motions of the outer sea: 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses un 

confined. 
While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the 
moon; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
On silken cushions half reclined; 
. I watch thy grace; and in its place 

My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly: soon 

From thy rose-red lips MV name 
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon. 
With dinning sound my ears are rife. 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest 
life. 



I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I ivould be dying evermore. 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without. 

And full of dealings witti the world? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. 

That we may die the self-same day 

Have I not found a happy earth? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I 'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk. 

And once again to woo thee mine- 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire: 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 
In firry woodlands making moan; 



28 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



1832 



But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream- 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that. 

When after roving in the woods 
('T was April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you. 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read. 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

Fiom some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge: 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes! I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 
That I should die an early death: 

For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And flU'd the breast with purer breath. 



My mother thought. What ails the boy? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy. 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill. 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold. 

When April nights began to blow. 
And April's crescent glinimer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope. 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; 

And " by that lamp," I thought, " she 
sits! " 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
" O that I were beside her now! 

O, will she answer if I call? 
O, would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard you sing within; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light. 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night. 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, * 

The lanes, you know, were white with 
May, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 

Flush'd like the coming of the day; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one! 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 
To yield consent to my desire: 

She wish'd me happy, but she thought 
I might have look'd a little higher; 



1832 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



29 



And I was young — too young to wed : 
" Yet must I love her for your sake; 

Go fetch your Alice here," she said: 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart. 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
"When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
"With bridal flowers — that Imayseem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

"While those full chestnuts whisper by. 

It is the miller's daughter. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dain-ty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest: 

And r should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her bahny bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should he. unclasp'd at night. 

A trifle sweet! which true love spells — 
True love interprets — right alone. 

His light upon the letter dwells, 
For all the spirit is his own. 



So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early rage 

Had force to make me rhyme in youth. 
And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thouart, 
"Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart: 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
"What is love? for we forget: 

Ah, no! no! 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine- 
My other dearer life in life. 

Look thro' my very soul with thine! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years. 

May those kind eyes forever dwell! 
They have not shed a many tears. 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 

Yet tears they .shed: they had their pait 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe. 
The still aft'ection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type. 
That into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more. 

With farther lookings on. The kiss. 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
W'eak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee: 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal nund — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 
To yon old mill across the wolds; 



30 



(ENONE. 



1832 



For look, the sunset, south and north. 
Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 

And fires your narrow casement glass. 
Touching the sullen pool below: 

On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 
Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight. 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers: 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers: 
I roll'd among the tender flowers: 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name. 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 

Love, O fire! once he drew 

With one long kiss my whole soid thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly: from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire. 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce de- 

Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye: 
I 7vill possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



(t;none. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the 

glen. 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to 

pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
The lawns and meadowledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them 

roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning: but in 

front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful Oinone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her 

neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper 

cliff: 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop: the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O 

Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake! O 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 



i832 



CENONE. 



31 



" O mother Ida, niany-fcmntain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 

white-hooved. 
Came up from reedy Sitnois all alone. 

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down 

dropt eyes 
I sat alone: white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam bow 

brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all 

my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he 

came. 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white 

palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful -brow'd Qinone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingrav'n 
"For the most fair," would seem to award 

it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married 

brows.' 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added ' This was cast upon the board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the 

Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were 

due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice, 



Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 

cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they 

came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded 

bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and 

thro'. 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and 

lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many 

a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with 

corn. 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and 

toll. 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing cita- 
del 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of 

power, 
'Which in all action is the end of all; 



32 



CENONE. 



1832 



Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor 

crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
P'a.l from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from 

me, 
From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee 

king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in 

power. 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

*' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought ot 

power 
Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she 

stood 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self- 
control. 
These three alone lead life to sovereign 

power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said: ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, O, rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to 

thee. 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 



Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 

will. 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased. 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrrdite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian 

wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep 

hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder: from the violets her light 

foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight 

for fear: 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his 

arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard. 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving 

is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my 

arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips 

prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling 

dew 



1832 



LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 



II 



Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They ca^ie, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy 

ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark 

morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling 

stars. 

•' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change; that I might speal 

my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die, 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
Seal'd it with kisses? vvater'd it with tears? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my 

face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floatinj 

cloud. 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and 
more, 
; Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 



Dead sounds at niglit come irom the inmost 

hills, 

Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born: her child! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. 1 will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown: 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retned: 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer chaims. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you cpieen cl all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than L 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thnce your branching limes Lave blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence aead. 



TO 



1832 



O, your sweet eyes, your low replies: 
A great enchantress you may be; 

But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vera de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall: 
The guilt of blood is at your door: 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall, 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth. 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'f is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth. 

But sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time. 

You needs must play such pranks as these 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands? 
Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 

THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race: 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 



They were together, and she fell; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 
O the Earl was fair to see! 

She died: she went to burning flame: 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and 

late. 
To win his love I lay in wait: 

O the Earl was fair to see! 

I made a feast; I bade him come; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head: 

O the Earl was fair to see! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see! 

I rose up in the silent night: 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind) 

And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are 

three sisters 
That doat upon each other, friends to man, 



1832 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



35 



Living tugctiier under the same rouf, 
And never can be sunder'd without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her thresliold 

lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common 

earth. 
Moulded "by God, and temper'd with the 

tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house. 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd 
brass 
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shell 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would Lve alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast 
shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily: 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me. 
So royal-rich and wide." 

* * * * 



Four courts I made. East, West and South 
and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran 
a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 



And round the rools a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands. 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the 
sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one 
swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tosiing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall gaze 

upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 

And that sweet incense rise? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, 
And, while day sank and mounted higher 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and 
traced. 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow 'd grots of arches interlaced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 
pass. 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace 
stood. 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and 
blue. 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn. 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter 
blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 



36 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



1832 



tract of 



One seem'd all dark and red- 
sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing 
caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones 
and slags. 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scorn- 
ful crags. 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight 
pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Sefterthan sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was 
there 
Not less than truth design'd. 

sjc sjt tjc ;}t 

■i* sjt i}t ;{i 

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 
A group of Houris bow'd to see 



The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said. We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear. 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king 
to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd. 

And many a tract of palm and rice. 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward borne: 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand 
grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. , 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down. 

Sole as a flying star shot thro' the si<y 

Above the pillar'd town. « 

Nor these alone: but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed gi eat bells that 
swung, 
Mov'd of themselves, with silver sound; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I 
hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd 
his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest; 

A million wrinkles carved his sicin; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 



1832 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



37 



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
stings; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or 
bind 
All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man 
declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod: and those great 
bells 
Began to chime. She took her throne 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion 
were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of change 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd 
fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, 
drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful 
mirth. 
Joying to feel herself alive. 



Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth 
Lord of the senses five; 

Communing with herself: " All these are 
mine. 
And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me." She — when young night 
divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars. 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils- 
Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and 
cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes I 

shapes and hues that please me well! 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell! 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening droves of 

swine 
That range on yonder plam. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate 

And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; 
And at the last she said: 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 



38 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



1832 



And so she throve and prosper'd: so three 
years 
She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 

The abysmal deeps of Personality, 

Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd 
her sight 
The airy hand confusion wrought. 
Wrote " Slene, mene," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

■ Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What! is not this my place of strength," 
she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were 
laid 
Since my first memory? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears ot 
blood. 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she 
came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the 
land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
RoU'd round by one fi.x'd law. 



Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this 
world : 
One deep, deep silence all! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mould- 
ering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime: 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, " I 
have found • 

A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin. 
And save me lest I die? " 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

" Yet pull not down my palace towers, that 
are 
So lightly, beautifully built: 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt," 



^, ^^r /^^ /y) '=*^ V'^<>''^ ^ V 




Pm to ie Queen o' the May.'" 

The May Queen, Page 39, 



THE MAY QUEEN. 39 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen 0' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May, 



40 THE MAY QUEEN. 1832 

new-year's eve. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a meriy day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney -tups. 

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting place; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken ^s hat you say. 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore. 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let Efiiecome to see me till my grave be growing green; 
She'll bo a better child to you than ever I have been, 



THE MAY QUEEA\ 41 



She'll find my garden -tools upon the granary floor: 
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for jne. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind, 



42 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



1832 



But you were sleeping; and I said, " It's not for them: it 's mine. 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; 
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If 1 had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
' And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun^ — • 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

" Courage!" he said, and pointed toward 
the land, 

" This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon." 

In the afternoon they came unto a land. 

In which it seemed always afternoon. 

All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 

And like a downward smoke, the slender 
stream 

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 
did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward 
smoke, 

Slow-droppingveilsofthinnestlawn,didgo; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows 
broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land: far off, three moun- 
tain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 



Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with show- 
ery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 
woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the 

dale 
W^as seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
And meadow, set with slender galingale; 
A land where all things always seem'd the 

same ! 
And round about the keel with faces pale, 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters 

came. a 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they 

gave 
'To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 



1832 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



43 



Far far away did seem to mourn and rave in. 

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, ^0! in the middle of the wood, 

His voice was thin as voices from the grave; ^^^ ^^j^^^ j^^^ .^ ^^^^,^ ^^.^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ 

And deep-asleep he seem d, yet all awake, -i^r-.i ■ 1 ^u \^ u 1 ^i, 

. , ft' .■ 1, ,• . . rj With winds upon the branch, and there 

And music in his ears his beating heart did r- „„.^ „,„„ „ j u 1 j I i 

, ° orows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 
They sat them down upon the yellow sand, p^U^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^.^ ^^^ ^;^ 

Between the sun and moon upon the shore; l^, s^eeten'd with the summer light, 



And sweet it was to dream of P"ather-land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever-more 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no 

more "; 

And all at once they sang, "Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer 

roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 
Music that gentlier t>n the spirit lies. 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from 

the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
A.nd in the stream the long-leaved flowers 

weep, 
(Vnd from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs 

in sleep. 



The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days. 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



vVhy are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 

\.nd utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

vVhile all things else have rest from weari- 
ness? 

UI things have rest: why should we toil 
alone, 

kVe only toil, who are the first of things, 

^.nd make perpetual moan, 

jtill from one sorrow to another thrown: 

■^foi? ever fold our wings, 

Vad cease from wanderings, 

Vor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

■^or harken what the inner spirit sings, 

' There is no joy but calm! " 

JVhy should we only toil, the roof and 
Crvwi) of things? 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life; ah, why 
Should life all labor be? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the 

grave 
In silence; ripen, fall and cease: 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or 

dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the downward 
stream. 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem ■ 

Falling asleep in a half-dream! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber 
hght. 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on 
the height; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech; 

Eating the Lotos day by day. 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melan- 
choly; 

To muse and brood and live again in 
memory. 

With tho§e old face? of our infancy 



44 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



1832 



Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn 
of brass! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath suffer'd 

change; 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold : 

Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble 

joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrc 

sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
Tlie Gods are hard to reconcile: 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death. 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 

pilot-stars. 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blow- 
ing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing 

slowly 
His waters from the purple hill 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined 

vine — 
To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus- wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling 

brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 



All day the wind breathes low with mellow- 
er tone: 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotus-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and uf 

motion we, 
RoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when 

• the surge was seethingfree. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his 

foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it witli an 

equal mind, 
Li the hollow Lotos-land to live and \\a 

reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of 

mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the 

bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the 

clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with 

the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over 

wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, 

roaring deeps and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 

sinking ships, and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred 

in a. doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient 

tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words 

are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men tliat 

cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with 

enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine 

and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis 

whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is move sweet than 

toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 

wander more, 

S 




• O rest ye, brollier mariners, tve will not 
■wander >/iore." 

The Lotos- Eaters, Page 44. 



18.12 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



45 



-A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" llic Legend of Good JVomen,^' long 
ago 

Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
His music heard below; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet 
breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts, that 
fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong 
gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my 
heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every 
land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 
stars, 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 
wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging 
hoofs: 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanc- 
tuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on 
roofs 
Of marble palaces; 

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall 
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; 
Lances in ambush set; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 

heated blasts 

That run before the fluttering tongues 

of fire; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 
masts. 
And ever climbing higher; 



Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates, 
And hushed seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to 
land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self- 
same way. 
Crisp foam -flakes scud along the level sand. 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 
Resolved on noble things, and strove 
to speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along the 
brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from oft" his saddle-bow. 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 
Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, 
and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 
In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in 
coolest dew 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the stedfast blue. 

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with 
clearest green. 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 
done. 
And with dead lips smiled at the twi- 
light plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun. 
Never to rise again. 



46 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



1832 



There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine 
turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to 
tree. 
And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of ttie languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unbliss- 
ful clime, 

*' Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing 
there; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness wiih shame and with surprise 
Froze my swift speech: she turning on 
my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty: ask thou not my 
name: 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. Where'er 1 
came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 



But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws; 
" My youth," she said, "was blasted with 
a curse: 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 

Which yet to name my spirit loathes 

and fears; 

My father held his hand upon his face; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak: my voice was thick 
with sighs 
As in a dream: Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish 
eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; 

The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and 

the shore; 

The bright death quiver'd at the victim's 
throat; 
Touch'd; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow; 
" I would the white cold heavy-plung- 
ing foam, 
Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep 
below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence 
drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea: 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come 
here. 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: 
" I govern'd men by change, and so I 
sway'd 
A.11 moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a 
man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 



1832 



A DREAM OF FAIR IVOME.V. 



47 



" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood: 
That makes my only woe. 

li Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not 
bend 
One will; nor tame and tutor with mine 
eye 
That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, 
friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I rode 
sublime 
On Fortune s nqck: we sat as God by 
God: 
The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 
Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O 
my life 

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, . 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms 

Contented there to die! 

" And there he died: and when I heard my 
name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook 
my fear 
Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. 
What else was left? look here!" 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, 
Showing the aspic's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name for ever ! lying robed and crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 



From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

W'hen she made pause I knew not for de- 
light; 
Because with sudden motion from the 
ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fiU'd with 
light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest 
darts; 
As once they drew into .two burning 
rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the 
lawn. 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine: 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the 
dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine 
laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the 
door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and 
tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when 
that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure; as when she went along 



48 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



1832 



From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome 
light, 
\Vith timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth: " Heaven heads the 
count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd 
answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes be 
neath, 
Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe fur death. 

«< My God, my land, my father — these did 
move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 
Dov/n to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew 
boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy. 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal- 
bower. 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
ISeneath the battled tower. 

"The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by 
one. 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame. 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and griel 
became, 
A solemn scorn of ills. 



H«w beautiful a tiling it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to 
dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 

Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 

On Arnun unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past 
afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 

As one that from a casement leans his 
head. 
When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
denly. 
And the old year is dead. 

" Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me: "Turn and look 
on me: 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair. 
If what I was I be. 

" W'ould I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor! 

O me, that I should ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust: 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you 
tamely died! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 



When the next moon was roll'd into the 
sky. 

Strength came to me that equall'd my 
desire. 



With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mys- 
tery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in tte eastern sky. 



1832 



MARGARET. 



49 



Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd- in her last 
trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A Hght of ancient France; 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her 
king. 
Drew forth the poison with her l)almy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hid- 
den ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what 
dull pain 

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams again 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been 

blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 

years. 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 

By signs oi" groans or tears; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest 
art. 

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet 
W^ither beneath the palate, and the heart 

Faints, faded by its heat. 



MARGARET. 



O SWEET pale Margarot, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? 
From the westward-winding flood. 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the .sun. 



The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound. 
Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth. 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

II. 

You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife. 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alsvay 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 

III. 

What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart. 
Even in her sight he loved so well? 

IV. 
A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes. 

You are not less divine. 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch 'd with a somewhat daVker hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: 

The sun is just about to set, 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 

And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 



50 



TO J. S. 



1832 



Rise from Ihe feast of sorrow, lady, 

"Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn. 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O blackbird! sing me something well: 
"While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine; the range of lawn and park: 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark. 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring. 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that cold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill! the silver tongue. 

Cold February loved, is dry: 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 

Now thy tlute-notes are changed to coarse; 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new. 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR, 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die; 
You came to us so readily. 
You lived with us so steadily. 
Old year, you shaU not die. 

He lieth still: he doth not move: 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 



Old year, you must not go; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us. 
Old year^ you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I've half a mind to die with you. 

Old year, if you must die. \ 

He was full of joke and jest, i 

But all his merry quips are o'er. 

To see him die, across the waste 

His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 

But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the Nev,-year blithe and bold, my 
friend. 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro: 
The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 

Alack! our friend is gone. 

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: 

Step from the corpse, and let him in ' 

That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on tlie floor, my 
friend. 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold. 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made. 
Or else I had not dared to flow 



yocr ASK ME WHY. 



51 



In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

' Tis strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed. 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost: 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 

He lends us; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — nor speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is 
seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer; for this star 

Rose witli you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother: his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth: 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes till with dew. 

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind "; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 



His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace I Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who miss the brother of your youth? 
Yet something I did wish to say: 

For he too was a friend to me: 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both; yet it may Ije 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 
Grief more. 'T were better I should 
cease 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in p^ace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist. 

And languish for the purple seas? 

It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown. 
Where Freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent: 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 

But by degrees to fulness wrought, 
- The strength of some diflusive thought 
Hath time and space to work and spread. 



52 



LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



1832 



Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Ok old sat Freedom on the heights. 
The thunders breaking at her feet: 

Above her shook the starry lights: 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mina, 

But fragments of her miglity voice 
Came r(jlling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle altar gazing down. 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And King-like, wears the crown: 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 
Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes! 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
P'rom out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by jiower of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For Knglish natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 



But pamper not a hasty time, , 

Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wikl hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. : 

Watch what main -currents draw the years: 
Cut Prejudice against the grain: 
But gentle words are always gain: 

Regard the weakness of thy peers: 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise: 
It grows to guerdon after-days: 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : 

Not clinging to some ancient saw; 

Not master'd l)y some modern term; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: 
And in its season bring the law; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds- 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees. 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, wliich fiicS; 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shajie in act; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact, 



1832 



THE GOOSE. 



S3 



Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom— 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A. slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States— 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Ot many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 

Diive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt. 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace: 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes: 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossoms of the dead; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. 
Her rags scarce held together: 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. 

It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 't was no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf. 
And ran to tell her neighbors; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself. 
And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied; 

-Until the grave churchwarden dofl'd. 
The parson smirk' d and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder: 

But ah! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there* 
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: 

She shifted in her elbow-chair, 
And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that. 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together. 
There strode a stranger to the door. 

And it was windy weather: 

He took the goose upon his arm. 

He utter'd words of scorning; 
" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 

It is a stormy morning." 



54 



THE GOOSE. 



1832 



The wild wind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again. 
And half the chimneys tumlded. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out. 
The blast was hard and harder. 



Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder: 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose 
And God forget the stranger!" 



ENGLISH I DYLS, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 




ENGLISH IDYLS, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

PUBLISHED 1842. 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls allkiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away, — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a 

talk, 
How all the old honor had from Christmas 

gone. 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd 

games 
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the outer 

edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several stars, 
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commissioners. 
Now hawking at Geology and schism; 
Until I woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, " at home was little 

left. 
And none abroad: there was no anchor, 

none. 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his 

hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by 

him." 
*' And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail- 
bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift 

that way 
At college: but another which you had, 
I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 
What came of that?" " You know," said 

Frank, " he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books " — 



And then to me demanding why? " O, sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, or 

else 
Something so said 't was nothing — that a 

truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: 
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. 
It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," 

said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic times? 
For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 
Nor we those times; and why should any 

man 
Remodel models? these twelve books of 

mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. 
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." 

" But I," 
Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from 

this hearth, 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a 

horse 
That hears the corn -bin open, prick'd my 

ears; 
For I remember'd Everard's college fame 
When we were Freshmen ; then at my re- 
quest 
He brought it; and the poet little urged. 
But with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 

MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 
King Arthur: then, because his wound was 
deep, 

(57) 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



1842 



The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
"Whereof this world holds record. Such a 

sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that 

we 
Shall nevermore, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
The' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou reraemberest 

how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword, — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known: 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
Aiid fling him far into the middle mere: 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring tne 

word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightlj^tbring thee 

word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, step- 
ping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 



Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I 

gave? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast 

heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 

" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 

And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale: 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring m« 

word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many 

men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done ? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 



rS42 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



59 



Tiie King is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings. 

Some one might show it at a jousl of arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the after- 
time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were 

lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own con- 
ceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily: 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast 

heard?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much in 

wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknighlly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence: 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The 

great brand 



Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd 

in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker 

breath; 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- 
ing him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, breath- 
ing hard: 
■' My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not 

words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one 

knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 



6o 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



1842 



But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 

hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all t!;e house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 

walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a 

goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as 

he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels 
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon 
Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in 

the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands, 
And call'd him l)y his name, complaining 

luud, 



And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood: for all his face 

was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset; and the light 8.nd lustrous cuils — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd 

with dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 

his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dis- 
solved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years. 
Among new men, strange fiices, other 

minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within himself make pure! but 

thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 




^'Biit she that rose the tallest of them all 

And faii-est , laid his head tipon her lap. 

And loosed the shatter''d casque, and chafed his hands. 

And calPd hint by his name." 

MoRTE d'Arthur, Page 60. 



1842 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



61 



Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
p"or what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands ot 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedi- 

vere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge oi 

dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that 

long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared 

and fell: 
At which the parson, sent to sleep with 

sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good! " 

but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing- 
ness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his 

work; 
I know not: but we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used 
«' There now — that's nothing! " drew a little 

back. 



And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point; till on to dawn, when 

dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought,who waited with a crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, 

bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 
" Arthur is come again: he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " Come again, and thrice as 

fair;" 
And, further inland, voices echoed — "Come 
With all good things, and war shall be no 

more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal. 
That with the sound I woke, and heard in- 
deed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas 
morn. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 
OR, THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the day. 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, 
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might liave sat for Hercules, 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and 

draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little; — Juliet, she 
So light of lOot, so light of spirit, — O, she 
To me myself, for some tliree careless moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not 
.Such touches are but embassies of love. 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her. 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
" When \s\\\ you paint like this?" and I re- 
plied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
" 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, 
unperceived, 



62 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



1S42 



A more ideal Artist he than all, 

Came, drew your pencil from you, made 

those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 01 

March." ^ 

And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see 
TheGardener's daughter : trust me, after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his master- 
piece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Behind it, blooms the garden that I l(!)ve. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad 

stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar. 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd 

kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous 

wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived 
Her lame from lip to lip. Who had not 

heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where 

was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in grief. 
That, having seen, forgot? The common 

mouth. 

So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty, such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart. 
And told me I should love. A crowd ol 

hopes. 
That sought to sow themselves like winged 

seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Llutter'd about my senses and my soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 



To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the 

dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark 

East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal -blowing wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large 

cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven was 

pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to 

verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. And 

now. 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its 

sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of 

these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to 

graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, 

stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for 

joy. 

But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and 

right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; 
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to 

me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo! by my life. 
These birds have joyful thouglits. Think 

you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song? 
Or have they any sense of why they sing? 
And would they praise the heavens for what 

they have?" 
And I made answer, " Were there nothing 

else 
For which to praise the heavens but only 

love, 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise." 




''For 71 p the porch there grew an Eastern rose. 

* * * * One arm aloft — 

Gozvn'J in pure white that fitted to the shape- 
Holding the hush, to fix it hack, she stood." 

The Gari>f.\er's Daughter, I'age 63. 



Io42 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



63 



Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my 

thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted 

us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, 

blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the 

midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of 

shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 
" Eustace," I said, " this wonder keeps 

the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look! look!" Before he ceased 

I turn'd. 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 
For up the porch there grew an Eastern 

rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale 

had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the 

shape — ■ 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her light brown hair 
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the 

flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist— 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering 

down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have 

danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common 

ground! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and 

sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her 

lips. 

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 

Asnever pencil drew. Half light, halfshade, 

yhe stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a 

Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 



Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance 

turn'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her: 

" Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd: but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-pos- 

sess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and turn- 
ing, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, the' no answer came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day. 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 
So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 

me. 
" Now," said he, " will you climb the top 

of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Master, 

Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home I went, but could not sleep for 

. joy. 

Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er. 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — -such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and 

such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchman 

peal 
The sliding season: all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 



64 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



1842 



Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to 

all. 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall 

nor storm 
Could keep me. from that Eden where she 

dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch 

love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm; and more and 

more 

A word could bring the color to my cheek; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy 

dew; 

Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

• The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade; 
And each in passing touch'd with some new 

grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never cfin be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an 

hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I 

will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to 

hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose 

lull of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and from her standing 

there. 
There sat we down upon a garden mound, 
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them 

clash'd 
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we 

play'd; 
We spoke of other things; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and 

near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that t'me and place, I spoke to 

her. 



Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; 
And in that time and place she answer'd 

me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, "I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own ene.gy fulfill'd itself. 
Merged in completion? Would you learn at 

full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
15eyond all grades develop'd? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memory with .sad 

eyes. 
Holding the folded annals of my youth; 
And while I mused, Love with knit brows 

went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips, 
And spake, " Be wise: not easily forgiven 
Are those, who, setting wide the doors that 

bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have 

end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came between, more sweet 

than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not 

tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of 

vows. 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild 

leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting 

stars ; 
Or -while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
.Spread the light haze along the river- shores, 
And in the hollows; or as ©nee we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing 

wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. 



1842 



DORA. 



6S 



But this whole liour your eyes have been 

intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it 

holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy 

soul; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the 

time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



DURA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son. 
And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 
And often thought, " I'll make them man 

and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, 

because 
He had been always with her in the house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My 

son: 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees Ijefore I die: 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora: she is well 
To look to: thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter: he and I 
Had once hard words, ^nd j^arted, and he 

died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and 

day, 
For many years." But William answer'd 
short: 

'I " I cannot marry Dora; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 

! Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and 

y . said: 

[| " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my lime a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; 
Consider, William: take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish; 

IJ Qr.by the Lord that made me,you shall pack, 



And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were 

harsh; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and 

wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan 
call'd 
His niece and said: " My girl, I love you 

well ; 

But if you speak with him that was my son, 

(Jr change a word with her he calls his wife. 

My home is none of yours. My will is law." 

And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
"It cannot be: my uncle's mind will 
change!" 
And days went on, and there was born a 
boy 
To William; then distresses came on him; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him 

not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know . 

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you: 
You know there has not been for these five 

years 
So full a harvest: let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat; that when his heart is 

glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 
gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went her 
way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 



66 



DORA. 



1842 



That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to 

him, 
Eut her heart fail'd her; and the reapers 

reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose and 

took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said: " Where were you 

yesterday? 
"Whose child is that? What are you doing 

here?" 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's 

child!" 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone!" 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you! 
You knew my worcl was law, and yet you 

dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy, 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 
So saying he took the boy, that cried 

aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers 

fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down 

her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house and 

stood 



Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you: 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst lake my trouble on thy- 
self: 

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him 

home; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back: 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the 

farm . 
The door was off the latch: they peep'd and 

saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
W'ho thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks. 
Like one that loved him : and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
P^rom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy be- 
held 
His mother, he cried out to come to her: 
And Allan set him df)wn, and Mary said: 

" O Father! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William or this child; but now I come 
For Dora: take her back; she loves you 
well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me- — 

1 had been a patient wife: but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 
' God bless him! ' he said, ' and may he 

never know 
The troubles 1 have gone thro'! ' Then he 

turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 



1842 



AUDLEY COURT. 



67 



Will make h ni hard, and he will learn to 

slight 
His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs: — 
" I have been to blame — to blame. I 

have kill'd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved liim — my 

dear son. 
May God forgive me !— I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 

times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's 

child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

'The Bull, the Fleece are crammed, and 

not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
\t Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
liumm'd like a hive all round the narrow 

quay. 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
\.nd breathing of the sea. " With all my 

heart," 
5aid Francis. Then "h'e shoulder'd thro' 

the swarm, 
\nd rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
!)f meadow smooth from aftermath we 

reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' 

all 
Che pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, 
^nd cross'd the garden to the gardener's 

lodge, 
A^ithallits casements bedded, and its walls 
^nd chimneys muffled in the leafy vine 



There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and 

hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret 

lay. 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, 
A tlask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and 

eat 
And talk'd old matters over; who was dead. 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the 

hall: 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it 

was 
This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the 

farm, 
The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we 

split. 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin 

hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and 

sang — 
•' Oh! who would fight and march and 

countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battlefield, 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows? but let me live my 

life. 
" Oh! who would cast and balance at a 

desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd 

stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. 
" Who 'd serve the state? for if 1 carved 

my name 

Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 

I might as well have traced it in the sands; 

The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

" Oh! who would love? Iwoo'dawoman 

once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live my life." 
He sang his song, and I replied with mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's 
I pride. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



iS4i 



His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March— and 

this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 
" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream 

of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon 

her breast: 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her 

lip: 
I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. 
" I go, but I return: I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream ot 

me." 
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son, who lived across the bay. 
My friend; and I, that having wherewithal. 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere, 
Did what I would; but ere the night we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, 

just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
The limit of the hills; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us; lower 

down 
The bay was oily calm; tlie harbor-buoy 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm. 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

yohn. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the 
meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hillside was redder than a fox 
Is yon plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike? 

James. Yes. 

Jolin. And when does this come by? 

Janies. The mail? At one o'clock. 

Jolin. What is it now? 

James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see? 

No, not the County Member's with the vane : 



Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

Javics. That? .Sir Edward Head's: 

But he 's abroad: the place is to be sold. 
John. O, his. He was not broken. 
James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his 

face 
From all men, and commercing with him- 
self. 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 
John. And whither? 
James. Nay, who knows? he 's here and 

there. 
But let him go; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
John. What 's that? 
James. You saw the man — on Monday, 

was it? — 
There by the humpback'd willow; half 

stands up 
And bristles; half has fall'n and made a 

bridge; 
And there he caught the younker tickling 

trout — 
Caught in Jiagi-anle — what 's the Latin 

word? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at 

doors. 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and 

chairs. 
And all his household stuff; and with his 

boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 

"Wliat! 
You're flitting!" "Yes, we're flitting," 

says the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among the 

beds,) 
" O well," says he, " you flitting with us 

too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again." 
John. He left his wife behind; for so I 

heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my lady 

once: 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 




" me., my pleasant rambles by the lake." 

The Lake,. Page 6c,. 



1842 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



69 



John. O yet but I renieml)er, ten years 

back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then slie 

was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing: 
A l)ody slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
yames. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and 

they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and 

dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame 

and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, she 

sour'd 
To what she is: a nature never kind! 
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, 

they say. 
Kind nature is the best: those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 
John. But I had heard it was this bill 

that past, 
And fear of change at home, that drove 

him hence. 
James. That was the last drop in the cup 

of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him 

wince 
As from a venomous thing: he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his 

nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you 

know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that have 

and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age 

to age 

With much the same result. Now I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would 
I was at school — a college in the South: 
There lived a flay flint nearj we stole his 

fruit, 



Mis hens, his eggs; but there was law for ?rr,- 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. 

She, 
With meditative grunts of much content. 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and 

mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew 

stair 
With hand and rope we haled die groaning 

sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of jjrospect had the mother sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved. 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy: but what lot is 

pure? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 
John. They found you out? 
Jamis. . Not they. 

John. Well— after all— 

What know we of the secret of a man? 
Mis nerves were wrong. Whatailsus, who 

are sound. 
That we should mimic this raw fool the 

world. 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or 

whites, 

As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail; and here it 

comes 
With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 

O ME, my pleasant rambles liy the lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a 

year. 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life! I was a sketcher then: 
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, 

bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a rock, 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 
New-Qomcrs from the Mersey, millionaires, 



7» 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



1842 



Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimneyed 

bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss and 

fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim. 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he 

seem'd 
All-perfect, hnish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life 
And his first passion; and he answer'd me; 
And well his words became him : was he not 
A fuU-celi'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. 

" My love for Nature is as old as I; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that. 
And three rich sennights more, my love for 

her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her. 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful.- 
To some full music rose and sank the sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move and 

cliange 
With all the varied changes of the dark. 
And either twilight and the day between; 
For daily hope fulfiU'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe." 

Or this or sometliing like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull, 

" I take it, God made the woman for the 
man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good 9.nd increase of the \vorld," 



" Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe 

too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my piactice into his: 
Tho' if, in dancing alter Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music: yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a 

dream? " 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

" Give? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; 
" I would have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths: her least remark was 

worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and 

came; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land; 
I spoke her name alone. Thi ice-happy days! 
The llower of each, those moments when 

we met. 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did? but something jarr'd; 
Whether he spoke too largely; that there 

seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-con- 
ceit. 
Or over-smoothness: howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said: 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yourself 

alone 

Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and 

left? 
But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein: 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much 

within; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or 

two. 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place: 't is from no want in her: 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Disse cting passion. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that 
were. 
Then said the fa,t-fa,ccd curate, Edward BwU; 



1842 



ST. SIMEON' STYLITES. 



71 



" God made the woman for the use of man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we 

paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders, garden-isles; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their 

crags, 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more: 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle voiis suit. 
The close, "Your Letty, only yours"; and 

this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist 01 

morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beating 

heart 
The Sweet- Gale rustle round the shelving 

keel; 
And out I stept, and up I crept; she moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and 

she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet: a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, 
"O leave me!" "Never, dearest, never: 

here 
I brave the worst": and while we stood 

like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they 

came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. " What, 

with him ! 
Go" (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus); 

" him! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the bur- 
den — " Him! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection " Go ! — 
Girl, get you in! " She went — and in one 

month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 
To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 



And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to work: 
It seems I broke a close with force and 

arms : 
There came a mystic token from the king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd: 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below: 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the 

storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to 

hear. 

Nor cared to hear? perhaps: yet long ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed. 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days tome; 
For in the dust and drouth of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, 

or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer 
crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 
From scalp to sole one slough and crust ot 

sin. 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob. 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms 

of prayer, 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years. 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, • 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes 

and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud. 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

sleet, and snow; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy 

rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the 

palm, 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



1842 



O take the meaning. Lord: I do not 

breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were 

still, 
Less burden, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that 

crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the hr.st. 
For I was strong and hale of body then; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt 

away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my 

beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with 

sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes 

saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now I am feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am. 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry. 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary 

head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the 

stone. 
Have mercy, mercy; take away my sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul. 
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified. 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from th 

well. 
Twisted fis tight as I could knot the uoose; 



And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marveli'd greatly. More than 

this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 

alL 
Three winters, that my soul might grow 

to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, 

and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and 

sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating 

not. 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that 

came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live: 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fume is loud amongst mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, 

O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone with 

thee, 
Three )ears I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on one 

that rose 
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew 
Twice ten long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the st)il. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrovi' 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon: thou has suffer'd 

long 
For ages and for ages! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro'. 
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, 
That Heaven, and Farth, and Time, arc 

chokcil. 

But yet 
Bethink thee. Lord, while thou and all thi 

saints 



1842 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



73 



Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on 

earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs, 
Sit with their wives by tires, eat wholesome 

food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts 

have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, 
Bow down one thousand and two hundred 

times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff" with crackling 

frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 

mercy, uiercy! wash away my sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 

A sinful man, conceived and born in sin: 

' 'T is their own doing; this is none of mine; 

Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. 

That here come those that worship me? 

Ha! ha! 

They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: 
And L in truth (thou wilt bear witness here] 
Have ail in all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this? 

1 am a sinner viler than you all. 

It may be I have wrought soBie miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 

what of that? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints, 
May match his pains with mine; but what 

of that? 
Yet do not rise; for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd? 
I think you know I have some power with 

Heaven 
From my long penance: let him speak his 
'^^ wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth 

from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! 

they shout 
"St. Simeon Stylitcs." Why, if so, 
God reaps a ha,rvest in me. O mjr soul, 



God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were saints 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Be- 

hold a saint! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere 

death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and made l)lank of crimeful record 

all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites among men; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; 
I, whose bald l:)rows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here pro- 
claim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I 

lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my 

sleeve: 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd 

again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my 

chest: 
They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book; 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish 

whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was 

left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with 

thorns; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, 

fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with 

slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding 

pain. 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that 

still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the 

praise: 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, 



74 



THE TALKING OAK. 



1842 



Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind. 
Which few can reach te. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsfeps smite the thresh- 
old stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without re- 
proach; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones. 
When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest 
pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike 

change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the 

end! 
Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a 

shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, 

come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long; 
My brows are ready. What! deny it now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch 

it. Christ! 
'T is gone: 'tis here again; the crown! the 

crown! 
So now 't is fitted on and grows to me. 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and 

frankincense. 
Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I 

trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for 
Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls; 
One? mor? before my fag? 



I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 
That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 

Beneath its drift of smoke; 
And ah ! with what delighted eyes 

I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint. 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart. 

And told him of my choice, 
Until he plagiarized a heart. 

And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
' None else could understand; 
I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour; 
'T were well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneatii thy boughs.^ 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year. 

Made ripe in Suainer-chace: 

" Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 
And, issuing shorn and sleek. 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Hany broke into the spence, 
And turn'd the cowls adrift; 



% 



1842 



THE TALKING OAK. 



75 



" And I have seen some score of those 

Fresh faces, that would thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 

To chase the deer at five; 

" And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays: 

"And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 

Or while the patch was worn; 

" And, leg and arm with love-knots gay. 

About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modest Cupid of the day, 

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all; 

" Yox those and theirs, by Nature's law. 

Have faded long ago; 
But in these little springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number hve from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years— 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade. 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass: 

" F"or as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold tTiern exquisitely knit, 
I^tit fa,r too spare of tlesh," 



O, hide thy knotted knees in fern. 

And overlook the chace; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 

That oft hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy: 
As cowslip unto oxlip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you used to come, 

She look'd with discontent. 

"She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut: 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt. 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing. 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child: 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir. 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round nie play'd, 
And sang to me the whole ^ 

Of those three stanzas that you madq 
About my ' giant bole '5 



76 



THE TALKING OAK. 



1842 



•' And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist: 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's iragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
"When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs? 

" O yes, she wander'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine, 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 

And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

•' A teardrop trembled from its source. 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 

l^ut I believe she wept. 

" Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 

She glanced across the plain; 
But not a creature was in sight: 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind. 

That, trust me on my word, 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

But yet my sap was stirr'd: 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

Thaf show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 

The niiii den's tender palm, 



" L rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust: 

" For ah! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone. 
From spray, and branch, and stem. 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

" 'T is little more: the day was warm; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life 

The music from the town — 
The murmurs of the drum and fife, 

And luird them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterHy; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
. To make the necklace shine* 
Another slid, a sunny fleck, » 

From head to ankle fine, 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



11 



" Then close and dark my arms I spread, 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

«' And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The Finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thri,ce for me. 

That have no lips to kiss. 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

.Step deeper yet in herb and fern. 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some liappy future day. 

T kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
( >r lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

Prom here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet! 

AH starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! 



All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee l)low 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

That under deeply strikes! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 

High up, in silver spikes! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep. 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 
.She, Dryad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme. 
And praise thee more in both 

Than hard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke; 

And more than England honors that. 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 
What sequel? Streaming eyes and break- 
ing hearts? 
Or all the same as if he had not been? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth? O shall the braggart 

shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work 

itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 



78 



LOl^E AMD DUTY. 



1842 



Mere highway dust? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless 

days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? 
O three times less unworthy! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy 

years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will 

bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed 

to fruit 
Ofwisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end 
Will some one say, Then why not ill foi 

good? 
W^hy took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godhke being most a man 
— So let me think 't is well for thee and me— 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart 

so slow 
To feel it! For how hard it seem'd to me. 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, 

would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Paltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash. 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck. 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief !) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul! 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
U this world's curse,- — beloved but hated — 

came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and 

mine, 
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy 

bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me: 
Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest 

it all. 



Could Love part thus? was it not well to 

speak. 
To have spoken once? It could not but be 

well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things 

good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought the 

night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart. 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an tye. 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and 

died. 
Then followed counsel, comfort, and the, 

words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking 

truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights. of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that luief night; the summer night, that 

paused 
Among her stars to hear us; stars tliat hung 
Love-charm'd to listen: all the wheels of 

Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 
O then like those, who clench their nerves . 

to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, 
And bade adieu for ever. 

I/ive — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Livehajipy; tend thy tlowers; be tended by 
My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy 

thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content. 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point tliee forward to a distant light, 
()v seem to lift a burden from thy heart 
And leave thee freer,till thou wake refresh'd, 



1842 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



79 



Then when the tirst low matin -chirp hath 

grown 
Full quire, and morning driv'n her plough 

of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

\\eia.j you shall have that song whieli 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales: 
Old James was with me: we that day had 

been 
Up vSnowdon; and I wish'd for Leonard 

there, 
And found him in Llanberis: then we crest 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way 

up 
The counter side; and that same song of 

his 
He told me; for I banter'd him, and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, 
That, setting the //o7o much before the hoiiK 
Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, 

" Give, 
Cram us with all," but count not me the 
herd ! 
To which " They call me what they will," 
he said: 
"But I was born too late; the fair new- 
forms. 
That float about the threshold of an age. 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher 

crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of yester- 
morn. 
"We sleep and wake and sleep, but all 
things move; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year 
•♦Ah, tho' the times, when some new 
thought can bud, « 

Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, 
1 Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, 
t Have ebb and flow conditioning their 
march, 



And slow and sure comes up the golden 
year. 
" When wealth no more shall rest in 
mounded heaps, 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be liker 

man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 
" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be 
wrens? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 
" Hy, happy happy sails and bear the 
Press; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross; 
Knit land to land, and blowing heavenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of 

toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah! when shall all 
men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year?" 

Thus far he flow'd, and ended; whereupon 
"Ah, folly! " in mimic cadence answer'd 

James — 
" Ah, folly! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of ihi golden year." 
With that he struck his staff' against the 
rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — 

old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet. 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis: 
Then added, all in heat: 

" What stuff is this! 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers 

both : 
You most, that in an age, when every horn- 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 
plunge 



VL VSSES. 



1B42 



His hand into the bag: but well I know 
That unto him wlio works, and feels he 

works, 

This same grand year is ever at the doors." 
He spoke; and, high above, I heard them 

blast 
The steep slate quarry, and the great echo 

flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

l!y this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 

not me. 
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd 
(Jreatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Ilyades 
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known; cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, govern- 
ments. 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Cileams that untravell'd world, whose mar- 
gin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on 

life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains; l)ut every hour is saved 
Prom that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 



To fjllow knowledge like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone, lie works his work, I 

mine. 
There lies the port: the vessel puffs her 

sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and 

thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are 

old; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; 
Death closes all: but somethingere tlie end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: 

the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, 

my friends, 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in ordir smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
(){ all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
Ami see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old 

days 
Moved earth and heaven; that which we 

are, we are; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 

will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and net to yield. 



LOCKS LEY MALL. %\ 



LOCKSLEA^ HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a liltlc, while as yet 'tis early morn: 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Urion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; 

W^hen the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; 

.Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. 

In the .Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; 

In the .Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; 

In the .Spring a young man's fancy ligiuly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance' hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, " I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 
6 



&2 LOCKSLEY HALL. 1842 

O my cousin, shallow-liearted! O my Amy, mine no more! 

the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — to decline 
Un a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
RoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! 

Cursed be tlie sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! 
Cursed be tke gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster!- — Hadst thou less unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? 

1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? 

Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and move: 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? 
No — she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
.To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years. 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine cars; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy troulde dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I seetheeold and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 

"With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt- 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt I 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
1 have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt liefore the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a lioy when first he leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall d© : 



84 LOCKS LEY Li ALL. 



For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint; 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people as a lion, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

W^eakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 85 



Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree- 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjovment more than in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space; 
I will lake some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — • 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men shoidd perish one by one,_ 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, tlash the lightnings, weigh the Sun — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



S6 



GOD IV A. 



G(JUIVA. 

/ waited for the (i-ain at Coz'ciitry: 

J hung with grooms and porters on the 

bridge, 
To wateh the three tall spires; and there I 

shaped 
7 he city^s ancient legend into this: — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the tlying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
C)f rights and wrongs, have loved the people 

well. 
And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she 
1 )id more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
(..odiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we 

starve!" 
She sought her lord, and found him, where 

he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before h m, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 
And pray'dhim, " If they pay this tax, they 

starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed 
" You would not let your little linger ache 
For such as these?" — " But I would die," 

said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 

Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk!" — "Alas!" she 

said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. 
He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the 

town. 
And I repeal it"; and nodding, as in scorn. 
He parted, with great strides among his 

dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and 

blow. 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, 

all 
The hard condition; but that she would 

loose 
The people: therefore, as they loved her 

well, 



From then till noon no foot should pace 

the street, 
No eye look down, she passing; but that 

all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window 

barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, snd 

there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath 
She hnger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her 

htad. 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her 

knee; 
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair 
Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, 

slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gateway; there she found her palfrey 

trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity: 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode. 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for 

fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the 

spout 
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame: her palfrey's footfall 

shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses: the blind 

walls 
Were full of chinks and holes; and over- 

heail 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the 

field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity: 
And one low churl, comj)act of thankless 

earth. 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole i_n fear, 
Peep'd — l)ut his eyes, before they had their 

will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who 

wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd: and all at 

once. 




«« Then fled she to her inmost boiver, and there 
Unclasp' d the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Ear Ps gift J" 

GcDiVA, Page S6. 



1842 



THE TWO VOICES. 



87 



With twelve great shocks of sound, the 

shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred 

towers, 
One after one: but even then she gain'd 
Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and 

crown 'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery. 
Were it not better not to be ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said: 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply; 

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

" An inner impulse rent the veil 
()f his old husk: from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

" He dried his wings: like gauze they grew 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began. 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

•' She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest. 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied; 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride: 

Look up thro' night: the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse. 

That in a boundless universe 

Ls boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you thismould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres?" 

It spake, moreover, in my mind: 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet Jij there plenty of the kind," 



Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly; 

Good soul! suppose I grant it thee. 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense? " 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me: 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 't were better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep: 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, " The years with change advance; 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he: " What drug can make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake?" 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; 

" And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

"Yet," said the secret voice, "some time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

"Not less swift souls that yearn for light, 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight. 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

"Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells. 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent; 
Each month is various to present 
Tije world with some development. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



1842 



"Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power?" 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
"Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
[ust breaking over land and main? 



" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride! 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still 1 yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 



Or make that morn, from his cold crown " I sung the joyful Prean clear, 



And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and town? 

"Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dreamed not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height. 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh. 

Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex tliee lying underground? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just," 



And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" .Some hidden principle to move, 

To put together, part and prove, 

And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt. 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe. 
And reach the law within the law: 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed. 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own. 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
When, soil'dwith noble dust, he hears 
liis country's war song thrill his ears: 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time tlie focman'siine is broke. 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke." 

" Yea!" said the voice, " thy dream was 

good. 
While thou abodest in the Inid. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 



1842 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour? 

" Then comes the check, the change, the 

fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall, 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst tliou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

" That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — -hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not: either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

"Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

A.S over rainy mist inclines 

A. gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

■* I will go forward, sayest thou, 
[ shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

* If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

rhou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; 

' And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Jailing thyself a little lower 

'Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl' 
vVhy inch by inch to darkness crawl? 
rhert; is one remedy for all." 



" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie. 
To flatter me that I may die? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
IJIowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mi.xes man with Heaven: 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead. 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
15ore and forebore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones. 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with 
stones: 

" But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt: 

Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd. 
The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
LTnmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence: 

" For I go, weak from suffering here; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer: 
What is it that I may not fear ?" 

" Consider vrell," the voice replied, 

"His face, that two hours since hath diedj 

Wilt Ihou find passion, pain or pride? 



90 



THE TWO VOICES. 



1842 



"Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast: 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek: 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

"His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race — ■ 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave. 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim: 
About him broods the twilight dim: 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up: the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death? the outward signs? 

" I found him when my years were few; 
A shadow on the graves I knew. 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow crept: 
In her still place the morning wept: 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head: 
* Omega! thou art Lord,' they said. 
' We hnd no motion in the dead.' 

"Why, if man rot in dreamless ease. 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease? 

" Who forged that other influence. 
That heat of inward evidence, 

i3y which he doubts against the sense ? 



He owns the fatal gift of eyes. 
That read his spirit blindly wise. 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly: 
His heart forebodes a mystery: 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

"The end and the beginning vex 
His reason: many things perplex. 
With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good 

He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 

Vast images in glimmering dawn, 

Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

" Ah! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain. 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against. 

Fails back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'c 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

.Their gowse, till thou wert also man;, 



1842 



THE TWO VOICES. 



91 



" Who took a wife, who rear'cl his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

"A life of nothings, nothing worth, 
Froai that first notiiing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth!" 

"These words," I said, " are like the rest. 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast: 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould? 

" I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I wjuld shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

*' It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls oil, but cycles always round. 

"As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much, 
|, For those two likes might meet and touch. 

ij " But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 

i[ Some legend of a fallen race 

I Alone might hint of my disgrace; 

tr'Some vague emotion of delight 

ij In gazing up an Alpine height, 

I Some yearning toward the lamps of night. 

j *' Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
; Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot; 

For is not our first year forgot? 

i The haunts of memory echo not. 



" And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined. 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory: 

" For memory dealing but with time. 
And he with matter, should she climb 
Beyond her own material prime? 

" Moreover, something is or seems. 
That touches me with mystic gleams. 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here; 
Of something done, I know not where; 
Such as no language may declare." 



The still voice laugh'd. 
" Not with thy dreams. 
Thy pain is a reality." 



" I talk," said he, 
Suffice it thee 



" But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new? 

" Wliatever crazy sorrow saith. 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal. 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest: 
Passing the place where each must rest 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 



92 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



One walk'd between his wife and cliild, 
With measured footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure. 
The little maiden walk'd demure. 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat. 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on: 
I spoke, but answer came there none: 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper, silver-clear, 

A murmur, "Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain aii, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes: 

Such scem'd the whisper at my side: 

" What is it thou knowcst, sweet voice?" 

I cried. 
"A hidden hope," the voice replied: 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
\ And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth intf) the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers: 
You scarce could sec the gras^ for flowers. 



I wonder'd, while I paced along: 

The woods v,-ere fdl'd so full with song. 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that liarren voice. 
Than him that said, " Rejoice! rejoice I" 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

TROLOGIJE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak: 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw. 
Then take the broidery -frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place, 

And order'd words asunder fly. 

THE SLEEPING PALACE. 
\. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd. 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 
II. 
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On tiie hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his i^ildcd wires. 



1842 . 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



93 



Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily: no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 

IV. 

Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd; and'there 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair; 
The page has caught her hand in his: 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak: 
His own are pouted to a kiss: 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 

V. 
Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps. 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
Eiis state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 

VI. 

W\ round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At di^itance like a little wood; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And gi'apes with bunches red as blood; 
\11 creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, burr and brake and brier, 
\.nd glimpsing over these, just seen 

High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

VII. 

A^hen will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be born again, 
Ind newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
iere all things in their place remain. 

As all were order'd, ages since, 
"ome, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
I. 

(''ear after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 



On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: 

The slumbrous light is rich and waim, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright: 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 



She sleeps: her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps: on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: 
She sleeps, nor dreams, Init ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

II. 
The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass. 
Are wither'd in the thorny close. 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead: 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

•' The many fail: the one succeeds." 



He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: 

He breaks the hedge: he enters there: 
The color flies into his cheeks: 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



94 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



More close and close his footsteps wind : 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 

How dark those hidden eyes must be I' 

THE REVIVAL. 



A TOUCH, a kiss! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner flew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd 
The maid and page renewed their strife. 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his chair himsell uprear'd. 
And yawn'd, and rul^ib'd his face, and spoke 

" By holy rood, a royal beard! 
How say you? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 



" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention 'd half an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply: 
But dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



THE DEPARTURE. 



And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold. 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old: 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



"I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss "; 
" O wake for ever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 



" O eyes long laid in happy sleep!" 

" (J happy sleeji, that lightly fled!" 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!" 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!" 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. 

The twilight died into the dark. 



" A hundred summers! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where?" 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we ]5ut 

The wild-weed flower that simply blowsl 
And i'i there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 



1842 



AMpmoi^. 



96 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In l)ud, or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
A.nd liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



Vou shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men; 
\nd every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science grown to more, 
3n secrets of the brain, the stars. 

As wild as aught of fairy lore; 
\nd all that else the years will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes? 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decads new and strange. 

Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of change. 



Ah, yet would I — and would I might! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right, or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not care; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you; 



Nor finds a closer truth than this 
All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, 

And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour. 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
But break it. In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair? " 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — -earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 
My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree. 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

() had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion! 
And had I lived when song was great. 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 



96 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



1842 



'T is said he had a tuneful tongue. 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung, 

He left a small plantation; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move. 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry. 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry. 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded. 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave. 

Came yews, a dismal coterie; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree: 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And was n't it a sight to see.. 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The country-side descended; 
And shepherds from the mountain-caves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-fright- 
cn'd. 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd! 

(), nature first was fresh to men. 

And wanton without measure; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! 

And make her dance attendance; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff"-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 



T is vain! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading; 
O Lord! — 't is in my neighbor's ground. 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees. 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses! how the prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen. 
And show you slips 01 all that grows 

P'rom England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut. 

And alleys, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt 

Are neither green nor sappy; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt. 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its nativfe fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil, 

And years of cultivation. 
Upon my proper patch of soil • 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom: 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



WILL W'ATERPROOF'S LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort. 
How goes the time? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port: 



1842 LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 97 


But let it not be such as that 


Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; 


You set before chance-comers, 


There must be stormy weather; 


But such whose father-grape grew fat 


But for some true result of good 


On Lusitanian summers. 


All parties work together. 


Vo vain Hbation to the Muse, 


Let there be thistles, there are grapes; 


But may she still be kind, 


If old things, there are new; 


\nd whisper lovely words, and use 


Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 


Her influence on the mind. 


Yet glimpses of the true. 


To make me write my random rhymes, 


Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 


Ere they be half- forgotten; 


We lack not rhymes and reasons, 


>for add and alter, many times, 


As on this whirligig of Time 


Till all be ripe and rotten. 


We circle with the seasons. 


. pledge her, and she comes and dips 


This earth is rich in man and maid; 


Her laurel in the wine. 


With fair horizons bound: 


^nd lays it thrice upon my lips, 


This whole wide earth of light and shade 


These favor'd lips of mine; 


Comes out, a perfect round. 


Jntil the charm have power to make 


High over roaring Temple-bar, 


New lifeblood warm the bosom, 


And, set in Heaven's third story. 


Vnd barren commonplaces break 


I look at all things as they are, ' 


In full and kindly blossom. 


But thro' a kind of glory. 


pledge her silent at the board; 


Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 


Her gradual fingers steal 


Half-mused, or reeling ripe. 


ind touch upon the master-chord 


The pint, you brought me, was the best 


Of all I felt and feel. 


That ever came from pipe. 


)ld wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 


But tho' the port surpasses praise, 


And phantom hopes assemble; 


J\ly nerves have dealt with stiffer. 


v.nd that child's heart within the man's 


Is there some magic in the place ? 


Begins to move and tremble. 


Or do my peptics differ ? 


"hro' many an hour of summer suns, 


For since I came to live and learn, 


By many pleasant ways, 


No pint of white or red 


Lgainst its fountain upward runs 


Had ever half the power to turn ' 


The current of my days: 


This wheel within my head. 


kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; 


Which bears a season'd brain about. 


The gas-light wavers dimmer; 


Unsubject to confusion. 


Lnd softly, thro' a vinous mist. 


Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out. 


My college friendships glimmer. 


Thro' every convolution. 


grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 


For I am of a numerous house, 


Unboding critic-pen. 


With many kinsmen gay. 


)r that eternal want of pence. 


Where long and largely we carouse 


Which vexes public men. 


As who shall say me nay: 


Vho hold their hands to all, and cry 


Each month, a birthday coming on, 


For that which all deny them — 


We drink defying trouble. 


Vho sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 


Or sometimes two would meet in one. 


And all the world go by them. 


And then we drank it double ; 


di yet, tho' all the world forsake, 


Whether the vintage, yet unkept. 


Tho' fortune clip my wings. 


Had relish, fiery-new, 


will not cramp niy heart, nor take 


Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. 


ilall'views of men and things. 


As old as Waterloo; 



98 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all: 
She lit the spaik within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

I'hat with the napkin dally; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg. 

And cramm'd a plumper crop; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-potlle-bodied boy. 

That knuckled at the taw: 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good. 

Flew over roof and casement: 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire. 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,. 

'rill, where the street grows straiter. 
One hx'd for ever at the door. 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the cliops and steaksl 



'T is but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than common; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me down 

Into the common day? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown. 

What I shall have to pay? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortaljle, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table: 

Half fearful that, with self at strife 

I take myself to task; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask: 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet: 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began. 

Till they be gather'd up; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can. 

Will haunt the vacant cup: 
And others' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience pi caches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone, 

'T is gone, and let it go. 
'T is gone: a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow: 
Nor yet the fear of little books 
, Had made him talk for show; 



1842 



TO 



99 



But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 
He flash'd his random speeches; 

Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd, 
His literary leeches. 

3o mix for ever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last. 

At half thy real worth? 
[ hold it good, good things should pass: 

With time I will not quarrel: 
X. is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 

3ead-waiter of the chop-house here. 

To which I most resort, 
'. too must part: I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
*'or this, thou shait from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
^nd, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

5ut thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
."by latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots: 
Thou batlenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
)ld boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
V.nd watch'd by silent gentlemen. 

That trifle with the cruet. 

^ive long, ere from thy topmast head 

The thick-set hazel dies; 
^ong, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes: 
.ive long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
rill mellow Death, like some late guest. 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

iut when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
Vnd, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of lile, shalt earn no more; 



No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 
Shall show thee past to Heaven: 

But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 
A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now. 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice: 

And you have mi'ss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown: 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry: 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show: 
Break lock and seal: betray the trust: 
Keep nothing sacred: 't is but just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth; 
No public life was his on earth, 

Nor blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best: 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown and 
knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier. 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear liis heart bciore the crowdl 



LADY CLARE. 



1842 



LADY CLARE. 

Lr was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they: 

They too will wed the morrow morn: 
God's blessing on the day! 

" He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fairj 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 

Said, " Who was this that went from 
thee?" 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, 
"That all comes round so just and fair: 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

*• Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my 
nurse?" 

Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild!" 
" As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, 

" I speak the truth: you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

U mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from, his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If r m a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull oft", pull oft', the brooch of gold. 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
*» i3ul keep the secret all ye can." 



She said, " Not so: but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the 
nurse, 

" The man will cleave unto his right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so. 

And lay your hand upon my head. 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And follow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth I 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are: 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said I>ord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born. 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare/' 




" The sJirill hell rings, the censer swings.'''' 

Sir Galahad, Page loi. 



1842 



SIR GALAHAD. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon: 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon! 
The shadows of the convent-towers, 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours, 

That lead me to my Lord: 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 
And strews her lights below, 
I And deepens on and up! the gates 
Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 
To make me pure of sin. 
I The sabbaths of Eternity, 
I One sabbath deep and wide — 
i A light upon the shining sea — 
j The Bridegroom with his bride! 



SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands. 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 



How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall! 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns: 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 

And, ringing, springs from brand and 
mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight - to me is given 
Such hope, I know not fear; 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



1842 



I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken l>y an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
" O just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
Witli such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there: 

And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever poijr'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 

By fountain urns; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
C)f cavern pillars; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks. 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

"There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present: 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand: 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse. 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great. 
Ancient homes of lord and lady. 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer: 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend their days 
O but she will love him truly! 

He shall have a cheerful home; 
She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly. 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before: 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 




•' Siveei Emir.a Illorclmid spoke to mc ; 
Bitterly weeping I (urii\i a^oay : 
' S7veet Enuua I\Io}-e'aiid, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edivard Gray.'' " 

Edwaru Gray, Page 103. 



1842 



SIR LAUNCELOr. 



103 



Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all tlie county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin: 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove: 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank: 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank: 
And a gentle consort made he. 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady. 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 

And she murmur'd, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter, 

Which did win my heart from me!" 
So sh-e droop'd and droop'd before him. 

Fading slowly from his side: 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh -house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 
That her spirit might have rest. 



EDWARD GRAY. 
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart?" she said; 
" And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray?" 



Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 
' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

' Ellen Adair she loved me weU, 

Against her father's and mother's will: 
To-day I sat for an hour and wept. 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

Shy she was, and I thought her cold; 
Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said! 

Cruelly came they back to-day: 
' You 're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
W^hisper'd, 'Listen to my despair: 

I repent me of all 1 did: 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair! ' 

"Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On tlie mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

"Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With-tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elmtree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song: 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 



104 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



1842 



oometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all tha,gioves from fear of wrong: 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
"With blissful treble ringing clear. 

Sltf seem'd a part of joyous Spring: 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
Buckled with golden clasps before; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set: 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings. 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 
The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A .nan had given all other bliss. 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
"To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 

Thy tribute wave deliver: 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
No where by thee my steps shall be. 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine £tspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 



A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

I. 

I HAD a vision when the night was late: 

A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would 

have flown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a child of sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him in, 
Where sat a company witli heated eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should arise: 
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and 

capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and 

piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow sound. 
Gathering up from all the lower ground; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd, 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide. 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly liail; 
Tlien the music touch'd the gates and died; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited, 

As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and 

palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round: 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 



IS42 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



loS 



Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew: 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain - 

tract, 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn, 
Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold. 
From those still heights, and, slowly draw- 
ing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold. 
Came floating on for many a month and 

year. 
Unheeded: and I thought I would have 

spoken, 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew too 

late: 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was 

broken, 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace 

gate. 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 

death, 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said: 



"Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! 

Here is custom come your way; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast! 

See that sheets are on my bed; 
What! the flower of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod vi^aiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 



Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 

When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woodland drips. 

And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: 

What care I for any name? 
What for order or degree? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : v 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine: 

Callest thou that thing a leg? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works: 

Thou hast been a sinner too: 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 

Empty scarecrows, I and you! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Have a rouse before the morn: 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame! to fly sublime 

Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools. 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship! — to be two in one-^ 

Let the canting liar pack! 
Well I know, when I am gone. 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well. 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" Oh ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book « 

Ixering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Have a rouse before the morn: 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave: 
They are fiU'd with idle spleen; 



jo6 



7'HE VISION OF SIN. 



1842 



Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For ihey know not what they mean. 

"He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power; 

A.nd the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread- 

In her right a civic wreath. 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new; 

She is of an ancient house: 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs: 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State: 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise. 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; 

Set thy hoary fancies free; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 
.What there is in loving tears, 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance; 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the windy ways of men 



Are but dust that rises up, 
1 And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads: 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads! 

" You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex. 

From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo! God's likeness — the ground-plan- 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed: 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death! 

"Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near: 

What! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man: 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 



The voice grew faint: there came a further 

change: 
Once more uprose the mystic mounta'n- 

range: 
Below were men and horses pierced with 

worms. 



I 
ft 




In 7-obe and crozvn the king slept do7vn. 
To niect and greet her on her 7aav" 

The Beggar Maid, Page 107. 



1842 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 



107 



And slowly quickening into lower forms; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 01 

dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with 

moss. 
Then some one spake: " Behold! it was a 

crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with 

time." 
Another said : " The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 
And one: "He had not wholly quench'd 

his power; 

A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, "Is there any hope?" 
To which an answer peal'd from that high 

land, 
But in a tongue no man could understand; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 



From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister- world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne. 
Dip forward under staiTy light. 

And move me to my marriage-morn," 
And round again to happy night. 



Come not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head. 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst 
not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, 

I care no longer, being all unblest: 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of 
Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I 
lie: 
Go by, go by. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



11 Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow: 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid; 

She was more fair than words can say: 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king slept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 



As shines the moon in clouded skies. 

She in her poor attire was seen: 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes. 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace. 

In all that land had never been: 
Cophetua sware a royal oath: 

" This beggar maid shall be my queen!" 



io8 



THE POET'S SONG. 



1842 



THE rOET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the 
street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet. 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 



The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray. 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his 
beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, " I have sung 
many songs. 

But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 




THE 'PRINCESS 




THE PRINCESS. 

A MEDLEY. 



I 

I 



TO 

HENRY LUSHINGTON. 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND 

A. TENNYSON. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people: thither flock'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring borough with their Insti 

tute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others: we were seven at Vivian-place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd the 

house, 

Greek, set with busts : fi;om vases in the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than 

their names, 
Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of 

Time : 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together; celts and calumets. 
Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm: and higher on the 

walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer. 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

And "this" he said "was Hugh's at 
Agincourt; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon: 



A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him " — which he brought, 

and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with 

knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and 

died; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the 

gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her 

walls. 



" O miracle of women," said the book, 
" O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's 

death. 
But now when all was lost or secm'd as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate. 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt. 
She trampled some beneath her horses' 

heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of 

the wall. 
And some were push'd with lances from the 

rock, 
And part were drown'd within the whirling 

brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood!" 



THE PRINCESS. 



So sang the gallant glorious chronicle; 
And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," he 

said, 
"To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Liliawilh the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park: strange was the sight 

to me; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand 

heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a 

font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the slope. 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp: and somewhat lower 

down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials 

fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields: and here were tele 

scopes 
For azure views; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: round 

the lake 

A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies: perch'd about the 

knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam: 
A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past: 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They fiash'd a saucy message to ancl fro 
Between the mimic stations; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science; other- 
where 
Pure sport: a herd of boys with clamor 

bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket; babies roll'd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and 

maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' 

light 
And shadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Suldier-laddie, and over- 
head 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from end 

tu cud. i 



Strange was the sight and smacking of 

the time; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy- 

claspt. 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost 

they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all 

within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn: 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats: and there was Ralph 

himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall. 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child half woman as she was, had 

wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his ivied 

nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests. 
And there we join'd them : then the maiden 

Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it 

preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great; but we, unworthierj 

told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt the 

bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs; and 

one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men. 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneei'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads 

I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought 
My book to mind: and opening this I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her 

walls. 
And much I praised her nobleness, and 

"Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woiuaa 

llUVV i'" 



THE PRINCESS. 



"3 



Quick answei'd Lilia, " There are thou- 
sands now 
Such women, but convention beats them 

down: 
It is but bringing up; no more than that: 
You men have done it: how I hate you all! 
Ah, were I something gieat! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you 

then, 
That love to keep us children! O I wish 
That I were some great princess, I would 

build 
Far oft' from men a college like a man's, 
And I would teach them all that men are 

taught; 
We are twice as quick!" And here she 

shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her 

curls. 

And one said smiling, " Pretty were the 

sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and 

flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for 

deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden 

hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns. 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or 

Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear. 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot: 
" That's your light way; but I would make 

it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she 

laugh'd; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, 

she: 
But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful 

Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, only long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed; they 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; 



They lost their weeks; they vext the souls 

of deans: 
They rode; they betted; made a hundred 

friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms, 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he 

spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
"We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd 

us much. 
I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 

She held it out; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm. 
So he with Lilia's Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. " Doubt my word again!" 

he said. 
" Come, listen! here is proof that you were 

miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read; 
And there we took one tutor as to read: 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and 

square 
Were out of season: never man, I think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he: 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet. 
And our long walks were stript as bare as 

brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, 
And what 'j- my thought and when and 

where and how. 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that: 
A pleasant game, she thought; she liked it 

more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men tell 

men. 
She wondcr'd, by themselves? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips: 
And Walter nodded at me; "/A' began. 
The rest would follow, each in turn; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what 

kind? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms. 



114 



THE PRINCESS. 



Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant! kill him in the summer too. 
Said Lilia; " Why not now," the maiden 

Aunt. 
*' Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time. 
And something it should be to suit the place 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn! " 

Weaker v/arp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, tliat I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker. 
Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her 

face 
With color) turn'd to me with "As you 

will; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 
" Take Lilia, then, for heroine, " clam 
or'd he, 
"And make her some great Princess, six 

feet high. 
Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you 
The Prince to win her! " 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required — 
But something made to suit with Time and 

place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experi- 
ments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt 

them all — 
This were a medley! we should have him 

back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter: we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 
FrOm time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest follow'd: and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



A PRINCE I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlets, like a girl. 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our 
house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire 

burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had forstold, 
Dying, that none of all our blood should 

know 
The shadow from the substance, and that 

one 
Shoxrld come to fight with shadows and to 

fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, more or 

less. 
An old and strange affection of the house. 
Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 

knows what: 
On a sudden in the midst of men and day. 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as hereto- 
fore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts, 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head 

cane, 
And paw'd his beard, and mutterVl "cata- 
lepsy." 
My mother pitying made a thousand prayers; 
My mother was as mild as any saint. 
Half-canonized by all that look'd on her, 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness: 
But my good father thought a king a king; 
He cared not for the affection of the house; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms and 

hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from the 

mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, be- 

troth'd 

To one, a neighboring Princess: she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old; and still from time to 

time 

Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her l^rethren, youths of puissance; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 



THE PRINCESS, 



"S 



And one dark tress; and all around them 

both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about 

their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should 

wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought 

back 
A present, a great labor of the loom; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind: 
Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts; 
He said there was a compact; that was true : 
But then she had a will; was he to blame? 
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone 
Among her women; certain, would not wed 

That morning in the presence room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and 

bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's 

face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, 
Inflamed with wrath; he started on his feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and 

rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
From skirt to skirt; and at the last he swarc 
That he would send a hundred thousand 

men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind; then he 

chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd 

his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let mc go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king. 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'ermy grief to find her less than fame, 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian 

said: 
" I have a sister at the foreign court. 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you 

know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 



He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land: 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd: " Take me with you 

too." 
Then laughing, " What, if these weird seiz- 
ures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth! 
Take me: I'll serve you better in a strait; 
I grate on rusty hinges here:" but " No!" 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not; we 

oursclf 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets: break the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and 

past 
Tliro' the wild woods that hung about the 

town; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness 

out; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying 

bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees: 
What were those fancies ? wherefore break 

her troth? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the 

shrieks 
Of the wild woods together; and a Voice 
Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With Cyril and with Florian, imperceived. 
Cat- footed thro' the town and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Ho! from some bay-window shake the 

night; 
But all was quiet: from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt. 
And flying reach'd the frontier: then we 

crost 
To a livelier land; and so by tilth and 

grange. 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilder- 
ness. 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers. 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gauia; crack'd and small 
his voice, 



ii6 



THE PRINCESS. 



But bland the smile that like a wrinkling 

wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines; 
A litlle dry old man, without a star, 
Not like a king; three days he feasted us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came, 
And my betroth'd. " You do us, Prince," 

he said. 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
"All honor. We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth: there did a compact 

pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I Uiink the year in which our olives fail'd. 
I would you had her. Prince, with all my 

heart. 
With my full heart; but there were widows 

here. 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this; with this our ban- 
quets rang; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots oi 

talk; 
Nothing but this; my very ears were hot 
To hear them: knowledge, so my daughter 

held. 
Was all in all: they had but been, she 

thought. 
As children; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman: then, Sir, awful odes she 

wrote, 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 
But all she is and does is awful; odes 
About this losing of the child; and rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason: these the women sang; 
And they that know such things — I sought 

but peace; 

No critic I — would call them masterpieces: 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd a 

boon 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier: I said no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it: and there 
All wild to found a University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more 
We know not, — only this: they see no men. 
Nut ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon 

her 
A? on a kind of paragon; and I 



(Pardon me saying it) were much loath tu 

breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine: but since 
(And I confess with right) you think me 

bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to her: 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your 

chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
( )ur formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. 

We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At 

last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of hope, 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve. 
Close at the boundary of the liberties; 
There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines, 
And show'd the late- writ letters of the king 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble; then exclaim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go: but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound to 

speak? 
The king would bear him out"; and at the 

last— 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it worth his 

while. 
She once had past that way; he heard her 

speak ; 
She scared him; life! he never saw the like; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as 

grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there; 
He always made a point to post with mares; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the 

boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles about 
Was till'd by women; all the swine were 

sows, 
And all the dogs " — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd tiiro' mc which I clothed 

in act, 
1 Remembering how we three presented Maid 



THE PRINCESS. 



117 



Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
SVe sent mine host to purchase female gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled: him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight when the college 

lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley: then we past an arch. 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the 

stars; 
And some inscription ran along the front. 
But deejD in shadow : further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden and half house; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for 

noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers 

falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering 

down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven 

and Earth 
With constellation and with continent. 
Above an entry: riding in, we call'd; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd us 

down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 
And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," 

she said, 
" And Lady Psyche." "Which was pret- 
tiest, 
Best-natured?" " Lady Psyche." " Hers 

are we," 
One voice, we cried; and I sat down and 

wrote. 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bowb all its ears before the roaring East: 



" Three ladies of the Northern empire 

pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I scal'd: 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung. 
And raised the blinding bandage from his 

eyes: 

I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and 

watch 
A full sea glazed with muflled moonlight, 

swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why. 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

11. 

At break of day the College Portress came: 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each. 
And zoned with gold; and now when these 

were on. 
And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact with lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of 

flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the midst; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or lute; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 



n8 



THE PRINCESS. 



There at a board by tome and paper sat, 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside her 

throne 
All beauty compass'd in a female form, 
The Princess; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man's earth; such eyes were in 

her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing 

down 
From over her arch'd brows, v. ith every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and 

said: 

"We give you welcome: not without 

redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come. 
The first-fruits of the stranger: aftertime. 
And that full voice whicli circles round the 

grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me 
W'hat! are the ladies of your land so tall?" 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From 



Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three years to correspond witk home; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties; 
Not for three years to speak with any men; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed, 
We enter'd on the boards: and "Now" she 

cried 
Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 

Look, our hall! 
Our statues! — not of those that men desire. 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of Ts'est or East; but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures up: 
Embrace our aims : work out your freedom. 

Cirls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 



the court," 
She answered, " then ye know the Prince?"! ^^'^ ^j^^ of emptiness, gossip and spite 
^"d he: L^d slander, die. Better not be at all 

■■ The climax of his age ! as tho there were ^j^^^ ^^_ ^ ^^ ^^-^^^^^ ^^^^,^ ^,g . y^^ ^lay go 



own hall to 



One rose in all the world, your Highness 

that, 
He worships your ideal: " she replied: 
" We scarcely thought in 

hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men. 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds 

would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. 

Indeed, 



To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before; 
For they press in from all the provinces. 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's: as we enter'd in. 
There sat along the forms,like morning doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils; she herself 
Erect liehind a desk of satin-wood. 



We dream not of him: when we set our hand' ^ quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon- 
To this great work, we proposed with oursclf 
Never to wed. You likewise will do v/cll, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which ma'ic us toys of men, that 



Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled ourlords ally 
Vour fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with 
scale." 

At those high words, we conscious of 
ourselves, 
Perused the matting; then an officer 



eyed. 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star, 
Her maiden babe, a doi-ble April old, 
Aglaia slept. We .sat: l'.- Lady glanced: 
Then Plorian, but no livelier than the dame 
That whisper'd "Asses' ears" among the 

sedge, 
"My sister." "Comely too by all that's 

fair " 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush!" and she be- 
gan. 



THE PRINCESS. 



iig 



" This world was once a iluid haze oi 

light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets: then the monster, then the 

man; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his 

mate; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye-view of all the ungracious 

past; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of 

those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman 

lines 
Of empire, and the v/oman's state in each, 
How far from just; till warming with her 

theme ' 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on Ma- 
homet 
With much contempt, and came to chiv- 
alry : 
When some respect, however slight, was 

paid 
To woman, superstition all awry: 
However then commenced the dawn: a 

beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had 

dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and as- 
sert 
None lordlier than themselves but that 

which made 
Woman and man. She had founded; they 

must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men were 

taught : 
Let them not fear: some said their heads 

were less: 
Some men's were small; not they the least 

of men; 
For often fineness compensated size: 
Besides the brain was like the hand, and 

grew 



With using; thence the man's, if more was 

more; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field; some ages had been lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer; and albeit their glorious names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in truth 
rhe highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the 

glebe. 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam; even so 
With woman: and in arts of government 
Elizabeth and others; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others; arts of grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man: 
And, last not least, she who had left her 

place. 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future; "everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business «f the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the 

abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind: 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous 

tarth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare 

souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of 

the world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us: the 

rest 
Parted; and, glowing full-faced welcome, 

she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her 

voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she 

cried 
" My brother!" " Well, my sister." " O" 

she said 
'< What do you here? and in this dress? and 

these? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! 



THE PRINCESS. 



A pack of wolves! the Lord be gracious to 
me! 

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all!" 

" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. "Wretch- 
ed boy, 

How saw you not the inscription on the 
gate. 

Let NO MAN ENTER IN ON PAIN OF DEATH?" 

" And if I had" he answer'd '< who could 

think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 

sister, Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men?" 
" But you will find it otherwise" she said 
•• Youjest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my 

vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
That axelike edge unlurnable, our Head, 
The Princess." "Well, then, Psyche, take 

my life. 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning: bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones: 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
All for the common good of womankind.'''' 
" Let me die too" said Cyril " having seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche. " 

I struck in 
" Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was. 
And thus (what other way was left) I came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; 
If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love-whispers may not 

breathe 
Within this veStal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live: the thunder- 
bolt 
Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it 

falls." 
"Yet pause," I said: " for that inscription 

there, 

1 think no more of deadly lurks therein. 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 

To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there 
be, 

If more and acted on, what follows? war; 

Your own work marr'd: for this your Aca- 
deme, 

Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 



Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." " Let the Princess 

judge 
Of that" she said: "farewell Sir — and to 

you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche " I rejoin'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle bi'ow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell. 
And sll else fled : we point to it, and we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 
" Are you that Psyche " Florian added 

" she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple 

fly, 

And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing 

blow. 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you 

now?" 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for 

whom 
I would be that for ever which I seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche " I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the 

king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that an- 
cient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern 

hills; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them: look! for such are these 

and I." 
"Are you that Psyche " Florian ask'd " to 

whom. 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, 



THE PRINCESS. 



121 



And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and 

the blood 

Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet 

you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little niece, 
You were that Psyche, and what are you 

now?" 
" You are that Psyche" Cyril said again, 
" The mother of the sweetest little maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it! " 
She answer'd, "peace! and why should I 

not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind? 
Him you call great: he for the common 

weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need were. 
Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right 

to save ' 
A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash! I fear 
My conscience will not count me fleckless; 

yet — 
Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise 
You perish) as you came, to slip away. 
To-day, to-morrow, soon: it shall be said. 
These women were too barbarous, would 

not learn; 
They fled, who might have shamed us; 

promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised each; 
and she. 
Like some wild creature newly caged, com- 
menced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly 

said: 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you have grown 
You scarce have alter'd: I am sad and glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to death. 
My brother! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well?" 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 



Sweet household talk, and phrases of the 

hearth. 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall: and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she 

stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown. 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche " Ah — Melissa — you! 
You heard us?" and Melissa, " O pardon me; 
I heard, I could not help it, did not wish: 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you " said the other " for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm and 

vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous temperament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or 

prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." " Ah, fear 

me not " 
Replied Melissa " no — I would not tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 
No, not to answer. Madam, all those hard 

things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so "the other " that we still may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in peace, 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 
Said Cyril " Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you 
(Tho' madam j(?M should answer, ?<;£• would 

ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you. 
Myself for something more." He said not 

what. 
But "Thanks," she answer'd "go; we have 

been too long 
Together: keep your hoods about the facej 



t22 



THE PRINCESS. 



They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak Httle; mix not with the rest; and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well." 

\Ve turn'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his 

waist, 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trumpeter, 
"While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and 

the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and 

laugh'd; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroll'd 
For half che day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we 

heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration: follow'd tlien 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
"With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time 
Sparkle for ever: then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, the 

rock, 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the 

flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known; 
Till like three horses that have broken fence. 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in 

corn. 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I 

spoke : 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
"They hunt old trails" said Cyril "very 

well; 
But when did woman ever yet invent?" 
"Ungracious!" answer'd Florian, "have 

you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that 

talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost 

sad? " 
" O trash " he said " but with a kernel in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made me 

wise ? 
And learnt? I learnt more from her in a 

flash, 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, 



And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls. 
And round these halls a thousand baby loves 
Fly twanging heedless arrows at the hearts, 
Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted firm. 
The long-limb'd lad that liad a Psyche too; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher; and now 
What think you of it, Florian? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow? will it hold? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me. 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. Well, 
Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is 

she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not. 
Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd 

coat? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth. 
And much I might have said, but that my 

ztme 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O to hear 
The Doctors! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane: 

but thou, 
Modulate me, vSoul of mincing mimicry! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my 

throat; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
vStar-sisters answering under crescent 

brows; 
Al)ate the stride, which speaks of man, and 

loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek. 
Where they like swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark the 

bell 
For dinner, let us go!" 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brow n and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed cf flowers. 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thru' with eyes, but that I kept mine 

own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, 
The second sight of some Astraean age, 



THE PRINCESS. 



»23 



Sat compass'd witli professors: they, the 

vvliile, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro: 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science: Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown. 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens: 

there 
One walk'd reciting to herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down with 

that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat: some hid 

and sought 
In the orange thickets: others tost a ball 
Above the fountain -jets, and back again 
With laughter: others lay about the lawns. 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their 

May 
W^as passing: what was learning unto 

them ? 
They wish'd to marry; they could rule a 

house; 
Men hated learned women: liut we three 
Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not: then day droopt; the 

chapel bells 
Call'd us: we left the walks; we mixt with 

those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white. 
Before two streams of light from wall to 

wall, 
While the great organ almost burst his 

pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the 

court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low. 
Wind of the western sea, 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 
Wind of the western sea ! 



Over the rolling waters go. 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
Father will come to thee soon; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon: 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 

III. 

Morn in the white wake of the morning 

star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the courts that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, 

and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears; 
" And fly" she cried, " O fly, while yet you 

may ! 
My mother knows": and when I ask'd her 

" how" 
" My fault" she wept *' my fault! and yet 

not mine; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 't is her wont from night to 

night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been the 

Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms; 
And so it was agreed when first they came; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now. 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used; 
Hers more than half the students, all the 

love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass you: 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy her. 
' Who ever saw such wild barbarians? 



124 



THE PRINCESS. 



Girls? — more like men!' and at these words 

the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast; 
And oh. Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh'd: 
' O marvellously modest maiden, you! 
Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been 

men 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric 

thus 
For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I am 

shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' men ' (for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
' And so they are, — very like men indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours!' 
Then came these dreadful words out one by 

one, 
' Why — these — are — men :' I shudder'd 

' and you know it.' 
'O ask me nothing,' I said: 'And she knows 

too, 

And she conceals it.' So my mother clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crush'd; 
But ydu may yet be saved, and therefore fly: 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 



sweet Melissa, for 

than 



** What par 

blush?" 
Said Cyril: " Pale one, blush again 

jvear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

Heaven 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, G'anymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn. 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough:" and he went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and 

thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Flo- 

rian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right and 

left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden; 't is my mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice: much I bear with her 
I never knew my father, but she says 



(God help herj she was wedded to a fool; 
And still she rail'd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease she brought 

her up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida: they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note; 
One mind in all things: yet my mother still 
Affirmed your Psyche thieved her theories. 
And angled with them for her pupil's love: 
She calls her plagiarist; I know not what: 
But I must go: I dare not tarry " and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after her. 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if-to close with Cyril's random wish: 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring 

pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in 

tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter of 

the crane. 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, O my princess! true she errs. 
But in her own grand way: being herself 
Three times more noble than threescore of 

men, 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me: for her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar; but — ah she — whene'er she 

moves 
The Samian HerS rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun." 

So saying from the court we paced, and 

gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank 

the gale 
That blown about the foliage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning " Ohard task," he cried; 
"No fighting shadows here! I forced a way 



THE PRINCESS. 



125 



Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and 

thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down, 
Tlian hammer at this reverend gentlewoman 
I knock'd and, bidtlen, enter'd; found her 

there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming storm 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oil'd, 
As man's could be; yet maiden-meek I 

pray'd 

Concealment: she demanded who we were. 
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair. 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had limed 

ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take the 

chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might 

harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than now,' 

she said, 
'So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might 

befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew: 
Her answer was ' Leave me to deal with 

that.' 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths. 
And she replied, her duty was to speak. 
And duly duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged. Sir; but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced: ' Decide not ere you pause. 
I find you here but in the second place, 
Some say the third — the authentic foundress 

you. 
I offer boldly: we will seat you highest: 
Wink at our advent: help my prince to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise you 
Some palace in our land, where you shall 

reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she- world, 
And your great name flow on with broad- 
ening time 
For ever.' Well, she balanced this a little. 
And told me she would answer us to-day, 
Aleantime be mute; thus much, nor more 

I gain'd," 



He ceasing, came a message from the 

Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should find the 

land 
Worth seeing; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder: " then she pointed on to where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to tiie appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head. 
Her back against a pillar; her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near: 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure 

came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house: 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show. 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy. 
Her college and her maidens, empty masks. 
And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with 

awe; 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said: 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn; 
Unwillingly we spake." "No — not to her," 
I answer'd, "but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the thing 

you say." 
"Again?" she cried, "are you ambassa- 
dresses: 
From him tome? we give you, being strange, 
A license: speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could have 

wish'd — 
Our king expects — was there no precon- 
tract? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefigured and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 



126 



THE PRINCESS. 



To follow: surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n to 

death. 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy" she said " can he not read 

— no books? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor deals in 

that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have been : 
"We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with 

them : 
"We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning 

here. 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier 

smile 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and 

thee, 

"Vashti, noble Vashti! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken 

king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

*' Alas your Highness breathes full East," 
I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the] Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 
Prince, That we might see our own work out, and 

1 prize his truth: and then how vast a work! watch 

To assail this gray pre-eminence of man! I'lhe sandy footprint harden into stone." 

You grant me license; might I use it? think; 

Erehalf be done perchance your life may -r ,, ,, • , , ,, , . ,, 

^ ^ [I answer d nothing, doubtful m myself 

^, '^' ' , ^ , , 1 ■ r 1 I If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 

Then comes the feebler hen-ess of your plan,| j^^^ j^^^^^i^,^^ ^^^i ,^^ ^^^ ^U ^^ ^^,^_,^_ 

And takes and rums all; and thus your pains And she broke out interpreting my thoughts: 
May only make that footprint upon sand ^ ° •' ° 

Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that "No doubt we seem a kind of monster 

you, to you; 

With only Fame for spouse and your great We are used to that: for women, up till this 

deeds Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle 

For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss, taboo. 

Meanwhile, what every woman counts her. Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far 

due, I In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 

Love, children, happiness?" |How mucli their welfare is a passion to us. 



And she exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Northern 

wild ! 
What! tho' your Prince's love were like a 

God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice? 
You are bold indeed: we are not talk'd to 

thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would they 

grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere! we like them 

well : 
But children die; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot 

die; 
They with the sun and moon renew their 

light 
For ever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children— that men may pluck them from 

our hearts, 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 
O — children-^there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err: nor would we work for 

fame; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause 

of Great, 
Who learns the one pou STO whence after- 
hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself ef- 
fect 
But little: wherefore up and act, nor shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we 

had been. 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 



THE PRINCESS. 



T27 



If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against the 

pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black 

blocks 
A breath of thunder. O'er it shook the 

woods, 
And danced tlie color, and, below, stuck 

out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and 

roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and 

said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That will be." " Dare we dream of that," 

I asked, 
"Which wrought us, as the workman and 

his work. 
That practice betters?" " How," she cried, 

" you love 
The metaphysics! read and earn our prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Ofhemlock; our device; wrought to the life; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her: 
For there are schools for all." "And yet" 

I said 
" Methinks I have not found among them 

all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answcr'd, "but it pleased us not: in 

truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids should 

ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living 

hound. 
And cram him with the fragments of the 

grave. 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful 

jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matte 

hangs: 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 



Nor willing men should come among us, 

learnt, 

For many weary moons before we came, 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, our- 
self 
Would tend upon you. To your question 

now, 
Which touches on the workman and his 

work. 
Let there be light and there was light: 't 

is so: 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is; 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light: but we that are not all. 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, now 

that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, 

and make 
One act a phantom of succession: thus 
(Jur weakness somehow shapes the shadow, 

Time; 
But in the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, 

came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet " I said 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask) 
" To linger here with one'that loved us." 

" Yea." 
She answer'd " or with fair philosophies 
That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysiaii lawns, 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the crowned 

towers 
Built to the Sun :" then, turning to her maids, 
" Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; 
Lay out the viands." Atthe v.'ord they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek, 
The woman-conqueror; woman-conquer'd 

there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns, 
And all the men mourn'd at his side: but we 
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril 

kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the 

rocl-cs. 
Many a light fo -t shone like a jewel set 



128 



THE PRINCESS. 



In the dark crag: and then we turn'd, we 

wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chat'tcring stony 

names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and 

tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fell, and 

all 
The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, .dying 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 

IV. 
" There sinks the nebulous star we call the 

Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound " 
Said Ida; " let us down and rest "; and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled preci- 
pices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where 

below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd 

on me, 
Descending;- once or twice she lent her 

hand. 
And blissful palpitations in the blood. 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell 



But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in. 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we 

sank 
Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she "Let some one sing to us: 

lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music": and a 

maid. 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and 

sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail, 

That brings our friends up from the under- 
world. 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the verge; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half^-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no 

more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess " If indeed there 

haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with 

wool 



THE PRINCESS. 



X29 



And so pace Ijy : but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each 

and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud; for all things serve their 

time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and 

rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden: let the past be past; let be 
Their cancell'd Babels: tho' the rough kex 

break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown 

goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we 

hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Uf better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow: " then to me; 
" Know you no song of your own land, 

she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect, 
But dtals with the other distance and the 

hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Then I remember'done myself had made. 
What time I watch'd the swallow winging 

south 
From mine own land, part made long since, 

and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 
South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest 
each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

'•' O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 



" O were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 

with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are 

green? 

O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is 
flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden 
woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make 

her mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time. 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with 

alien lips. 
And knew not what they meant; for still 

my voice 
Rang false: but smiling " Not for thee," 

she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
.Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, 

maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass: and 

this 
A mere love-poem! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight: they mind us of the 

time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves 

are men. 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
And dress the victim to the ofi'ering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul! I had a maid of honor once; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She is 

dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse! but great is 

song 
^Used to great ends; ourself have often tried 



130 



THE PRINCESS. 



Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have 

dash'd 
The passion of the prophetess; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit than to junketing and love. 
Love is it? Would this same mock-love, 

and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth. 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and 

sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 

Enough! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you, 
Know you no song, the true growth of your 

soil, 
That gives the manners of your country- 
women?" 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous 

head with eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine.- 
Then while I dragg'd my brains for such a 

song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd glass 

had wrought, 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and 

shook; 
The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows; 
"Forbear" the Princess cried; "Forbear, 

Sir" I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and 

love, 
I smote him on the breast; he started up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd; 
Melissa clamor'd "Flee the death "; " To 

horse " 
Said Ida: "home! to horse!" and fled, as 

flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk. 
When some one batters at the dovecote- 
doors. 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart. 
In the pavilion: there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me: hoof by 

hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge; and then another 

shriek, 



" The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the 

Head!" 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, 

and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to 

gloom : 
There whirl'd her white robe like a blos- 

som'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall: a glance I gave. 
No more; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught 

her; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling 

wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and 

caught. 
And grasping down the boughs I gain'd the 

shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly 

group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward 

drew 
My burden from mine arms; they cried " she 

lives "! 
They bore her back into the tent: but I, 
So much akindof shame within me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends; but push'd alone on 

foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at 

length 
The garden portals. Two great statues. Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but hi.s brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the 

gates. 

A little space was left between the horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue 

to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, 



THE PRINCESS. 



i3» 



I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
rhan female, moving thro' the uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt "if this were 

she " 
But it was Florian. " Hist O Hist," he said 
" They seek us: out so late is out of rules 
Moreover 'seize the strangers ' is the cry. 
How came you here?" I told him: "I" 

said he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, 

return'd. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall, 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneatii 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial: each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us: last of all, 
Melissa; trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent; closer prest, denied it not: 
And then, demanded if her mother kne\/, 
Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied: 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with 

her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there; she 

call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to 

face; 

And I slipt out: but whither will you now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled: 
What, if together? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come! I dread 
His wildness,and the chances of the dark." 

"And yet," I said, "you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still 

the clown. 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to 

shame 
That which he says he loves: for Cyril, 

howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in grosser 

lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 



He has a solid base of temperament: 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk 
near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

" Names:" 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but I began 
To thrid the musky- circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains: fleet I was of foot: 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; be- 
hind 
I heard the pufPd pursuer; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not. 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and 
known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she 

sat 
High in the hall : above her droop'd a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long 

bj^ck hair 
Damp from the river; and close behind her 

stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than 

men. 
Huge women blowzed with health, and 

wind, and rain, 
And labor. Each was like a Druid rock; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about with 

mews. 

Then as we came, the crowd dividing 

clove 
An advent to the throne: and there beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from 

wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her 

sobs, 
Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips; 



132 



THE PRINCESS. 



I led you then to all the Castalies; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother: those were gracious 

times. 
Then came your new friend: you began to 

change — . 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to 

cool; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze: this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts, 
And partly that you were my civil head. 
And chiefly you were born for something 

great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve; and thus a noble 

scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had 

sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd, 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun: 
\\e took this palace; but even from the first 
You stood in your own light and darken'd 

mine. 
What student came but that you planed her 

path ^ 

To I>ady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine 

were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves: ihcy knew her: 

ilicy endured. 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear: 
And me none told: not less to an eye like 

mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my 

foot 
Was to you: but I thought again: I fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall 

hear of it 
From Lady Psyche ' : you had gone to her. 
She told, perforce; and winning easy grace, 
No doubt,for slight delay, remain'd among us 
In our young nurseiy still unknown, the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my honest 

heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 



To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for public use. 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I spoke not tlitn at first, but watch'd them 

well. 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done; 
And yet this day (tho' you should hate me 

for it) 
I came to tell you, found that you had gone, 
Ridd'n to. the hills, she likewise: nt,w, I 

thought. 
That surely she will speak; if not, then I: 
Did she? These monsters blazon'd what 

they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind, 
For thus I hear ; and known at last (my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
1, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, w'ealth, and 

time. 
And talents, I- — you know it — I will not 

boast: 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be chafl 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can 

tread." 

She ceased: the Princess answer'd coldly 

" Good: 

Your oath is broken : we dismiss you: go. 

For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 

Our mind is changed : we take it to ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture 

tliroat. 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
" The plan was mine. I built the nest" 

she said 
"To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!" and stoop'd 

to updrag 
Melissa: she, half on her mother propt. 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her lace, 

and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Whicii melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobtan daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and 

while 
We gazed upon her came x little stir 



THE PRINCESS. 



133 



About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Started in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, 

and wing'd 
Her transit to tlie throne, whereby she fell 
Delivering seal'd despatches which the 

Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful 

bloom 
As of some hre against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the 

rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now her 

breast. 
Beaten with some great passion at her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she held 
Rustle: at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her. 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who should 

say 
" Read," and I read — two letters — one her 
, sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince 

your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which 

learnt, 
We conscious of what temper you are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
Vou lying close upon his territory, 
.Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's running thus : 
" You have our son: touch not a hair of his 

head: 
Render him up unscathed : give him your 

hand : 
Cleave to your contract: tho' indeed we hear 
Vou hold the woman is the better man; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
AVould make all women kick against their 

Lords 



Thro' all the world, and which might well 

deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace 

down; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be: hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours: my nurse would tell 

me of you; 
I babbled for you, as bailies for the moon. 
Vague brightness; when a boy, you stoop'd 

to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow- 
worm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had you 

been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en- 
throned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you: but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre: let me say but this, 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of prestige; tho' when known, 

there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing: but in you I 

found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music; who desire you more 



134 



THE PRINCESS. 



Than growing boys their manhood; dying 

lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do. 
The breath of life; O more than poor men 

wealth. 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, not 

mine — but half 
Without you; with you, whole; and of 

those halves 
You worthiest; and howe'er you block and 

bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I 

hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die: 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and 

dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet: a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait belind the lips. 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world wit h 

foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but there 

rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather'd together; from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike 

eyes. 

And gold and golden heads; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, 

some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light. 
Some crying there was an army in the land. 
And some that men were in the very walls. 
And some they cared not; till a clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded: high above them 

stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head: but 

rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, 

so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
(J] tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 



Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her 

arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

" What fear ye brawlers? am not I your 
Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: / 

dare 
All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye 

fear? 
Peace! there are those to avenge us and 

they come: 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls. 
To unl'url the maiden banner of our rights, 
[And clad in iron burst the rajiks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
jDie: yet I blame you not so much for fear; 
[Six thousand years of fear have made you 

that 
From which I would redeem you; but for 
I those 

[That stir this hubbub — you and you — I 
I know 

Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow 

morn 
I We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
I With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame 
I to live 

j No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of 

Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in 

their heels. 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to 

scour. 
For ever slaves at home and fools abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands: thereat 

the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved: then with a smile, 

that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 
When all the glens are drown'd in azure 

gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and 

said: 

" You have done well and like a gentle- 
man. 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for 

all: 



THE PRINCESS. 



135 



And you look well too in your woman's 

dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life: we owe you bitter 

thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the 

flood- 
Then men had said — -but now — What hin 

ders mc 
To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both? — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our good 

hive, 

You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears 

would I had his sceptre for one hour! 
You that have dared to break our bound, 

and guU'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwart 

ed us — 
/wed with thee! /bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave! not tho' all 

the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to make 

your crown. 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. 

Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to 

us: 

1 trample on your offers and on you: 
Begone: we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the 

plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and ad- 

dress'd 
Their motion: twice I sought to plead my 

cause. 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands. 
The weight of destiny: so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' 

the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at 

gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty 

mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and 

heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, 

came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts; 



The Princess with her monstrous woman- 
guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but 

came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway 

sun 
Set into sunrise; then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums. 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy conies, 

And gives the battle to his hands: 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang: we thought her half-pos- 

sess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the 

words; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she call'd 
The^raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for 

war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an 

end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors: if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what 

for me?" 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She: took it and she flung it. " Fight" 

she said, 
" And make us all we would be, great and 

good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall. 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the Prince. 



136 



THE PRINCESS. 



V. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from 

the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And "Stand, who goes?" "Two from 

the palate " I. 
"The second two: they wait," he said, 

" pass on; 
His Highness wakes": and one, that 

claslrd in arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, 

led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind; 1 stood and seem'd 

to hear. 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind 

wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death. 
Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old 

kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their glit- 
tering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and 

blew, 
And slain with laughter roU'd the gilded 

Squire. 

• 

At length my Sire, his rough ch?ek wet 

with tears, 
Panted from weary sides " King, you are 

free! 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludge": 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with 

briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head t 

heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted 

palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him 

" Look, 



He has been among his shadows." " Sa- 
tan take 
The old women and their shadows! (thus 

tl;e King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight with 

men, 
Go: Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met 

us, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and 

given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping: " then we 

fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies. 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head 

to foot. 

And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay: 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of woman- 
hood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and "Come" he 
whisper'd to her, 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not 

thus. 
What have you done but right? you could 
not slay 

prince: look up; be com- 



i\le, nor your 
forttd; 

Sweet is it to have done the thing one 
ought, 

When faH'n in darker ways." And like- 
wise 1 : 

" Be comforted: have I not lost her too. 

In whose least act abides the nameless 
charm 



THE PRmCESS. 



137 



That none has else for me?" She heard, 

she moved. 
She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale 

and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded over 

death 
In deathless marble. " Her " she said 

" my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and 

mine — 
Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not 

your faith? 
O base and bad! what comfort? none for 

me!" 
To whom remorseful Cyril " Yet I pray 
Take comfort: live, dear lady, for your 

child!" 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 



" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my 

child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no 

more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back; 
And either she will die for want of care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The cJiild is hers — for every little fault. 
The child is hers; and they will beat my 

girl 
Remembering her mother; O my flower! 
Or they will take her, they will make her 

hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were 

she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there. 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made, 
The horror of the shame among them all: 
But I will go and sit beside the doors. 
And make a wild petition night and day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me. 
And lay my little blossom at my feet. 
My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child: 
And I will lake her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her: 
Ah! what might that man not deserve of i Were 

me. 
Who gave me back my child?" " Be com- 
forted" 
Said Cyril " you shall have it": but again 
ijhe veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, 

and so 



Like tender things that being caught feign 

death. 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a mm-mur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the 

scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle: and " Look 

you" cried 
.My father " that our compact be fulfill'd: 
You have spoilt this child; she laughs at you 

and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and 

him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire; 
She yields, or war." ' 

Then Gama turn'd to me: 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl: and yet they say that 

still 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind 

at large : 
How say you, war or not?" 

" Not war, if possible, 

king," I said, " lest from the abuse of war. 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the house- 
hold flower 

Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster; now she lightens 

scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then would 

hate 
(And eyery voice she talk'd with ratify it. 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot. 
By gentleness than by war. I want her 

love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shreds with catapults, 
She would not love; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 
Not ever would she love : but brooding turn 
The book of scorn, till all my little chance 

caught within the record of her 

wrongs, 
And crush'd to death: and rather. Sire, than 

this 

1 would the old God of war himself were 
dead, 

Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 



138 



THE PRINCESS. 



Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of 

wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in 

ice, 

Not to be molten out." 



They worth it? truer to the law within? 
Severer in the logic of a life? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven? and she of whom you 
speak, 



And roughly spakejMy mother, looks as whole as some serene 
My father, "Tut, you know them not, thcj Creation minted in the golden moods 



girls 



[Of sovereign artists; not a thought, a touch, 



Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think But pure as lines of green that streak the 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, Sir.' 
Man is the hunter; woman is the game: 



hite 
I Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves; I say. 



The sleek and shining creatures of the chase,! Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 

We hunt them for the beauty of their skins;; Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual 

They love us for it, and we ride them down.j mire. 

Wheedling and sidingwith them! Out! for! But whole and one: and take them all-in-all. 



shame 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so dear to 

them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, 

comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and 

leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score 
Flatter'd andfluster'd, wins, tho' dash'dwith 

death 
He reddens what he kisses: thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — gentle- 
ness 
To such as her! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a grossamer. 
Were wisdom to it."" 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier? No: 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she «ose 
The yesternight, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the 

death. 
No, not the soldier's: yet I hold her, king, 
True woman: but you clash them all in one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm: one loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one 

that. 
And some unworthily; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr; whence they 

need 
More breadth of culture: is not Ida right? 



Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point : not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense " 
vSaid Gama. " We remember love ourself 
In our sweet youth; we did not rate him 

then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida: she can talk; 
And there is something in it as you say; 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter: for the rest. 
Our own detention, why, the causes weigh'd, 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land. 
You did but come as goblins in the night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's 

head. 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milk- 

ing-maid. 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon 

it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us 

friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will. 
Follow us: who knows? we four may build 

some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of fai-ewell to my sii-e, who 

growl'd 



THE PRINCESS. 



139 



An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy 

' jest 

Then rode we with the old king across Had labor'd down within his ample lungs, 

the lawns The genial giant, Arac, roH'd himself 

Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

Spring I 

In every bole, a song on every spray | " Our land invaded, 'sdeath! and he 

Of birds that piped their Valentines, and| himself 

woke I Your captive, yet my father wills not war: 

Desire in me to infuse my tale of love lAnd, 'sdeath! myself, what care I, war or no? 

In the old king's ears, who promised help. But then this question of your troth remains: 

and oozed And there's a downright honest meaning in 

All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode; her; 

And blossom -fragrant slipt the heavy dews She flies too high, she flies too high! and yet 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each She ask'd but space and fairplay for her 

light air I scheme; 

On our niail'd heads: but other thoughts She prest and prest it on me — I myself, 

than Peace iWhat know I of these things? but, life and 

Burnt in us, when we saw the embattledl soul! 

squares, jl thought her half-right talking of her 

And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the; wrongs; 

flowers jlsay she flies too high, 'sdeath! whatofthat? 

With clamor: for among them rose a cry |I take her for the flower of womankind. 
As if to greet the king; they made a halt; I And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
The horses yell'd; they clash'd their arms;|Atid, Prince, she can be sweet to those she 

the drum ] loves. 

Beat; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial And, right or wrong, I care not: this is all. 



fife; 

And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner: anon to meet as lightly pranced 
Three captains out; nor ever had I seen 



I stand upon her side: she made me swear 

it— 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by candle- 
light- 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 



Such thews of men: the midmost and tiie Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men; 



highest 

Was Arac: all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 



She was a princess too; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all; she will not: waive your 
claim : 



Of the East, that play'd upon them, made'jlf not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
them glance ! Decides it, 'sdeath! against my father's will." 

Like those three stars of the airy Giant's' 

zone, , I lagg'd in answer loath to render up 

That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark; { My precontract, and loath by brainless war 

And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet; 

And bickers into red and emerald, shone jTill one of those two brothers, half aside 



Their morions, wash'd with morning, as 
they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I 
]ieard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force. 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike: then took the king 
His three broad sons; with now a wander- 
ing hand 
And now a pointed finger, told theni all: 



And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat " Like to like! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoft'. 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the 

point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here: why not? we are three to 

three," 



140 



THE PRINCESS. 



Then spake the third " But three to 
three? no more? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause? 
More, more, for honor: every captain waits 
Hungry for honor,, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick! by over- 
throw 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 

" Yea " answer'd I " for this wild wreath 

of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all: 
Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail. 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact."" " 'Sdeath! but we will 

send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue: let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the 

word." 

"Boys!" shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool; for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more to say ; 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and 

found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim. 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life: three times he 

went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none ap- 

pear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors; none came: the 

next. 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence: 
The third, and those eight daughters of the 

plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught 

his hair, 
f And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild: not less one glance 

he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms; and standing like a stately Fine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and right 

^nd left 



Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills 

roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale: and yet 

her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry; 
Himself would lilt it out among the lads: 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons diawn from age and slate, 

perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce de- 

. mur: 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
Andswareto combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden-wall: and likewise here. 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble stairs. 
And great bronze valves, tmboss'd with 

Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight. 
But now fast barr'd: so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd 

up. 
And all that morn the heialds to and fio. 
With message and defiance, went and came; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a ro)al hand. 
But shaken here and there, and rolling 

words 
Oration -like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs 

we felt. 
What heats of indignation when we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's 

feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a 

scourge; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; and of 

those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, and 

swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion: and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men; the old leave?! le&vep'(J 

all: 



The princess. 



Hi 



Millions of throats would bawl for civil Then came a postscript dash'd across the 

rights, I rest. 

No woman named: therefore I set my face " See that there be no traitors in your camp; 
A'ainstall men, and lived but for mine own. We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 



Far o if from men I built a fold for them: 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey. 
And prosper'd; till a rout of saucy boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our 

peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know 

not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext held 



Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt-plague 

of men! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes. 
Than thus man-girdled here: indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother; which she left: 
She shall not have it back: the child shall 

grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 

there the tender orphan 



Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 

.Seal'd not the bond — the striplings I — for Tais morning 

their sport! — hands 

I tamed my leopards: shall I not tame Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from 

these? I thence 

Or you? or I? for since you think me touch'd The wrath I nursed against the world: fare- 



In honi*)- — what, I would not aught of 

false — 
Is not our cause pure? and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's 

blood 
You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 
What end soever: fail you will not. Still 
Take not his life: he risk'd it for my own; 
His mother lives: yet whatsoe'r you do, 
Fight and fight well; strike and strike home. 

O dear 



well.' 

I ceased; he said: " Stubborn, but she 
may sit 

Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 

And breed up warriors! See now, tho' 
yourself 

Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 

That swallow common sense, the spindling 
king. 



you 
The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause. 
The sole men we shall prize in the after- 
time, 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your salutes 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly brush'd 

aside. 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, 

till she 
WHiose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself; 
And Knowledge in our own land make her 

free. 



Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you,' This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 

When the man wants weight, the woman 

takes it up. 
And topples down the scales; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth: 
Man for the sword and for the needle she: 
Mai» with the head and woman with the 

heart : 
Man to command and woman to obey; 
All else confusion. Look you! the gray 

mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small good- 
man 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of 
Hell 



And, ever following those two crowned; Mix with his hearth: but you — she's yet a 

twins, colt — 

Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery Take, break her: strongly groom'd and 



gram 
Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 

morn." 



straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and 

brawl 



142 



7^ HE PRINCESS. 



Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the 

street. 
They say she's comely; there's the fairer 

chance: 
/ like her none the less for rating at her! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suiifers change of frame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king: 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his life "; 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods, 
And on the "Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win ": 

I thought on all the wrathful king had said, 
And how the strange betrothment was to 

end: 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's 

curse 
That one should fight with shadows and 

should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection came: 
King, camp, and college turn'd to hollow 

shows; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream. 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied and 

plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again; at which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of 

spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, I 

dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed. 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance. 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 
Part sat like rocks: part reel'd but kept 

their seats: 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose again and 

drew: 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. 

Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, and 

down 



From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail, 
The large blows rain'd, as here and every- 
where 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, 
And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, 

and shield — 
Shock'd like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 
With hammers; till I thought, can this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins? if this be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in my 

dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes. 
And highest, among the statues, statue-like. 
Between a cymbaPd Miiiam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair, 
Like a Saints gloiy up in heaven; but .she 
No saint— inexorable— no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel; yet she sees me fight, 
Yea, let her see me fall! with that I drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 
All that I would. But that large-moulded 

man. 
His visage all agrin as at a wake. 
Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering 

back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and horse- 
man, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 
And shadowing down the champaign till it 

strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar that 

Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for everything 
Gave way before him: only Plorian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right eye. 
Thrust in between; but Arac rede him down: 
And Cyril seeing it, pushVl against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough, 
Strcmg, supple, sinew-corded, apt at aims; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 
And threw him: last I spurr'd; I felt my 

veins 
Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to 

hand. 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we 

hung, 
rill I struck out and shouted; the blade 
glanced; 




" But high upon the pa/ace Ida stood 
With Psyche^ s bahe in anii.^^ 

The Princess, Canto VI, Page 143. 



THE PRINCESS. 



U5 



I did but shear a feather, and dream and 

truth 
Flow'd from me; darkness closed me; and 

I fell. 

Home they brought her warrior dead; 

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard; 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to me. 
That all things grew more tragic and more 

strange; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and my 

cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great cry. 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and 

ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Algaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm: there on the 

roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: 
the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, 



Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a 

bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms andrushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: 
they came: 

The leaves were wet with women's tears: 
they heard 

A noise of songs they would not under- 
stand: 

They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 

And would have strown it, and are fall'n 
themselves. 

"Our enemies liave fall'n, have fall'n: 

they came, 
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and 

floor. 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: 

they struck; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain: 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder 

blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a 

breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and 

roU'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 

fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

"And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken: fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose 

arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with a 

day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast. 
When dames and heroines of the golden 

year 
Shall strip a hun bed hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 



144 



THE PRINCESS. 



Their statues, borne aloft, the three 
come, 

We will be liberal, since our rights arc won. 

Let them not lie in the tents with coarse man- 
kind, 

111 nurses; but descend, and proffer these 

The brethren of*our blood and cause, that 
there 

Lie bruised and maimVl, the tender minis- 
tries 

Of female hand'; and hospitality." 



reverend 



She spoke, and with tlie babe yet in her 

arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, 

and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on 

they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest: by them 

went 
The enanior'd air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering 

fell. 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade: but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd: so they came: anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does. 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on air. 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay; there 

stay'd; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — 

and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers, 
And happy warriors, and immortal names, 
And said "You shall not lie in the tents 

but here. 
And nursed by those for whom you fought, 

and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it 
chance. 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye. 
Silent; Init when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale. 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'dj and when she 

saw I 



but The haggard father's face and 
I beard 

Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead 

past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she 

said : 
" He saved my life: my brother slew him 

for it." 
No more: at which the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the 

tress, 
And held them up; she saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory. 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore 

the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche: 
And then once more she look'd at my pale 

face: 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the earth; 

she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and presently 
"O Sire," she said, "he lives: he is not 

dead : 
O let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace: we will tend on him 
Like one of these; if so, by any means. 
To lighten this great clog of thanks that 

make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 



he 



o er my 



She said: but at the happy word 

lives" 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life. 
With brow to brow like night and evening 

mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede. 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother, and began 
A blind and babljling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent 

arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out, " Mine — 

mine — not yours» 



THE PRINCESS. 



HS 



It is not yours, but mine: give me the cliild" 
Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry: 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd, 
And turn'd each face her way: wan washer 

cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle 

torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and 

half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe; but she nor 

cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee; then he 

drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she 

look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying as it 

seem'd. 
Or self-involved; biit when she learnt his 

face, * 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him 

grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he 

said: 

" O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's 

mane! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more 

terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our 

necks. 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will. 
What would you more? give her the child! 

remain 
Orb'd in your isolation; he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of 

these. 
The common hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great 

Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with 

fire. 
And tread you out for ever : but howsoe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 

10 



To hold your own, deny not hers to her, 
Give her the child! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you 

loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you. 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer. 
Give her the child! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with 

yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not 

kill, 
Give me it: /will give it her. " 

He said: 
At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank and 

sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full on the child; she took it: " l^retty 

bud ! 
Lily of the vale! half open'd bell of the 

woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, i^arewell; 
These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part: and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to 

think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 
In the dead prime: but may thy mother 

prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I 

wish it 
Gentle as freedom" — here she kiss'd it: 

then — 
"All good go with thee! take it Sir" and 

so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands, 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she 

sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks: 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to 

foot. 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 

enough. 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled 

it, 
And hid her bosom with it; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly: 



14^' 



THE PRINCESS. 



" We two were friends : I go to mine own 

land 
For ever: find some other: as for me 
1 scarce am fit for your great plans: yet 

speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 'sdeath! you blame the 

man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so 

hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me! 
I am your warrior: I and mine have fought 
Your battle: kiss her; take her hand, she 

weeps: 
'Sdeath! I would sooner fight thrice o'er 

than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground' 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gania said: 
" I've heard that there is iron in the blood. 
And I believe it. Not one word? not one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper? not 

from me. 
Not from your mother now a saint with 

saints. 

She said you had a heart — I heard her say it 
' Our Ida has a heart ' — ^just ere she died — 
« But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still ' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — • 
The Lady Blanche: much profit! Not one 

word; 

No ! tho' your father sues : see how you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights 

maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death. 
For your wild whim : and was it then for 

this. 
Was it for this we gave our palace up. 
Where we withdrew from summer heats and 

state. 
And had our wine and chess beneath the 

planes. 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's 

gone. 
Ere you were born to vex us? Is it kind? 
Speak to her I say: is this not she of whom. 
When first she came, all flush'd you said to 

me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age, 
Now could you share your thought; now 

should men see 



Two womenfaster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock; she you walk'd 

with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in 

the tower. 

Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth. 
And right ascension, Heaven knows what; 

and now 

A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her: out upon you, tlint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any; nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment too. 

Not one? 
You will not? well — no heart have you, or 

such 

As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 
So said the small king moved beyond his 

wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her 

force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor 

wept: 
Her head a little bent; r.nd on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water: then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. " O 

you. 
Woman, whom we thought woman even 

now. 
And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but we 

see 
The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his draught 

with death. 
When your skies change again : the rougher 

hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd 

to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her 

broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and 

shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither. 
O Psyche," she cried out, " embrace me, 

come. 
Quick while I melt; make reconcilement 

sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour: 



the: princess. 



"47 



Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being chid ! 
/seem no more: /want forgiveness too: 
I should have had to do with none but 

maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah false but 

dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — why? 

— Yet see. 
Before these kings we embrace you yet once 

more, 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon 

him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to 

him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude,! know it; 
Taunt me no more: yourself and yours shall 

have 
Free adit; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper hearth ; 
What use to keep them here — now? grant 

my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help; speak to the 

king: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me 

down , 

From my tixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd: the king replied not; Cyril said; 
"Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — ask for 

him 
Of your great head— for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the 

prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken: let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful 

song. 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she said, 
"I stagger in the stream: I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
" Ay so?" said Blanche; "Amazed am I to 

hear 
Your Highness; but your Highness breaks 

with ease 
The law your Highness did not make; 't 
was I. 



I had been wedded wife, 1 knew mankind. 
And block'd them out; but these men came 

to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye: 
But Ida with a voiCe, that like a bell 
ToU'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower. 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn. 
" Fling our doors wide! all, all, not one, 

but all. 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul. 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls llit, 
Till the storm die! but had you stood. by us. 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his 

base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us 

too. 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your 

likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd; the very nape of her white 

neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came; the king her father 

charm'd 
Pier wotmded soul with words: nor did mine 

own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and 

bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the doors 

gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels: 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, and 

there 
Rested: but great the crush was, and each 

base, 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear: but in the centre 

stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; amazed 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 



148 



THE PRINCESS. 



When armor clash'd or jingled, while the! 

day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and 

shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to 

head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 
Now set a wrathiul Dian's moon on flame, 
And now and then an echo started up, , 
And shuddering fled from room to room 

and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance: 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and 

thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and 

due 
To languid limbs and sickness: left me in 

it; 
And others otherwhere they laid; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times; but some were left of 

those 

Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside the 

walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was 

changed. 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the 

sea; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape. 

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 

But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I 

give? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee 

die! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are 
seal'd: 

I strove against the stream and all in vain : 

Let the great river take me to the main : 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 

Ask nie no more. 



VII. 

So was their sanctuary violated. 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital; 
At first with all confusion: by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other laws: 
A kindlier influence reign'd; and everywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick: the maidens came, 

they talk'd. 
They sang, they read: till she not fair began 
To gather light, and she that was, became 
Her former beauty treble, and to and fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel of- 
fices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious act, 
Andintheirown clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with 

shame. 
Old studies fail'd; seldom she spoke; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for 

hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field: void was her 

use, 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'erland and main, and sees a great black 

cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night. 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore. 
And suck the lilinding splendor from the 

sand. 
And quencliing lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world: so fared she gazing 

there; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain; till down 

she came. 
And found fair peace once more among the 

sick. 

And twilight dawn'd; and morn by morn 

the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muftled cage of life: 
And twilight gloom'd; and broader-grown 

the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and 

Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach 

me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 



THE PRINCESS. 



149 



Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their 
sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian: with her oft, 
Melissa came; for Blanche had gone, but 

left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favor: here and there the small bright 

head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon tlie wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in them- 
selves 
To wile the length from languorous hours, 

and draw 
The sting from pain; nor seem'd it strange 

that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side; nor stranger seem'd that 

hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in love, 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper 

down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd 
At hrst with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche had 

sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields. 
She needs must wed him for her own good 

name; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but 

fear'd 
To incense the Head once more; till on a 

day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche: on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on; but each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent in 

volved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at 

peace. 

Nor only these; Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid and 

man. 

-Nor did her father cease to press my claim, 
ifor did mine own now reconciled; nor yet 



Did those twin brothers, risen again and 

whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat; 
Then came a change; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 

You are not Ida "; clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd a 

truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my 

mind, 
And often she believed that I should die: 
Till out of long frustration of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when 

clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or 

call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief. 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless hands. 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to 

these. 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with 

tears 
By some cold morning glacier; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close to 

death 
For weakness; it was evening: silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were 

wrought 
Two grand designs; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they 

cramm'd 
The forum, and half- crush'd among the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other 

side 



150 



THE PRINCESS. 



Hortensia spoke against the tax; behind, 
A train of dames: by axe and eagle sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman 

scowls. 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their 

veins, 
The fierce triumvirs; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia, pleading: angry was her face. 

I saw the forms: I knew not where I was: 
They did but look like hollow shows; nor 

more 
Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder secm'd: I mov'd: I sigh'd : a 

touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my 

hand ; 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I 

iiad. 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun. 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some 
ii\\eet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself; 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to- 
night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one 

sign. 
But lies and dreads his doom. Sheturn'd 

she paused; 
She stoop'd; and out of languor leapt a cry 



And down the streaming crystal dropt; and 

she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her 

out 
For worship without end; nor end of mine. 
Stateliest, for thee! but mute she glided 

forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and 

slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy 

sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, 
held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

" Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : 
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with nie. 

" Now droops the milkwhite peacock like 
a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

" Now lies the Earth all Danae to the 
stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

" Now slides the silent meteor on, and 
leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

" Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

1 heard her turn the page; she found a 
small 



Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death; Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she 
And I believed that in the living world read: 

My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; 
Till back 1 fell, and from mine arms she 

rose 
Glowing all over noble shame; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when she 

cami; 
from barren deeps lo conc^uer all with love; 



" Come down, O maid, from yonder 
mmmtain height: 

What pleasure lives in height (the shep- 
herd sang) 

In height and culd, the splendor of the 
hills? 

But cease to move so near the Heavens, aud 
cease ' . . --^r:"Zr__.-" 



THE PRINCESS. 



151 



To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver 

horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ra- 
vine. 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air: 
So waste not thou; but come; for all the 

vales 
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned; while with shut eyes I 

lay 
Listening; then look'd. Pale was the per- 
fect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor' d; and 

meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous 

eyes. 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She 

said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
\\\ sweet humility; had fail'd in all; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry; but she still were loath. 
She still were loath to yield herself to one, 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous 

laws. 
She prayed me not to judge their cause from 

her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth 

tlian power 



In knowledge: something wild within her 

breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to 

week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. Li part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts: yet was she but a girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of 

farce ! 
When comes another such? never, I think, 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her 

hands. 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break : 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light: 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 

" Blame not thyself too much," I said, 

" nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous 

laws; 
These were the rough ways of the world 

till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that 

know 
The woman's cause is man's: they rise 01 

sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or free* 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with 

man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to 

one goal. 
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow? but work no more 

alone! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag hei 

down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse^ gould we make her as the maaj 



152 



THE PRINCESS. 



Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is 
this, 

Not like to like, but like in difference. 

Yet in the long years liker must they grow; 

The man be more of woman, she of man; 

He gain in sweetness and in moral height. 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the 
world; 

She mental breadth, nor fail in childward 
care, 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; 

Till at the last she set herself to man, 

Like perfect music unto noble words; 

And so these twain, upon the skirls of Time, 

Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their 
powers. 

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 

Self-reverent each and reverencing each. 

Distinct in individualities. 

But like each other ev'n as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste 
and calm : 

Then springs the crowning race of human- 
kind. 

May these things be! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 

They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 

In our own lives, and this proud watch- 
word rest 

Of equal; seeing either sex alone 

Is half itself; and in true marriage lies 

Nor equal, nor unequal; each fulfils 

Defect in each, and always thought in 
thought. 

Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 

The single pure and perfect animal, 

The two-cell'd heart beating, with one full 
stroke, 

Life." 

And again sighing she spoke: " A dream 

That once was mine! what woman taught 
you this? " ; 

" Alone " said I " from earlier than I 

know. 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the 

world, 
I loved the woman: he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than 

death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with 
^ Clime; 



Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, 

one 
Not learned, save in gracious household 

ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds 

perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they 

moved. 
And girdled her with music. Happy he 
With such a mother! faith in womankind 
Beats with his Ijlood, and trust in all things 

high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall blind his soul with clay." 

" But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with 

words; 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts; they well might be: 

I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince; 
You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee" I said 
" From yearlong poring on thy pictured 

eyes. 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and 

saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, 

and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood; 

now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee, 
Indeed I love; the new day comes, the 

light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over; lift thine eyes; my doubts are 

dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows: the 

change, 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. 

Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, 
Like yonder morning on the blind half- 
world; 
Approach and fear not; breathe upon my 

brows ; 
In that line air I tremble, ail the past 



THE PRINCESS. 



153 



Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and 

this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland 

reels 



Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? 
Which yet with such a framework scarce 

could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two. 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists: 



Athwart the smoke of burning weeds.' And I, betwixt them both, to please them 



Forgive me, 



both, 



I waste my heart in signs: let be. MyAndyetto give the story as it rose, 



bride, 



I moved as in a strange diagonal, 



My wife, my life. O we will walk this And maybe neither pleased myself nor 

world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
And so thro' those dark gates across the 

wild 



them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute: the sequel of the tale 



That no man knows. Indeed I love thee; Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd 



come. 
Yield thyself up; my hopes and thine are 

one; 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to 

me. 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose: 
The words are mostly mine; for wlien we 

ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter 

said, 
"I wish she had not yielded!" then to me, 
•' Wliat, if you drest it up poetically!" 
So pray'd the men, the women: I gave as- 
sent: 
Yet how to bind the scattered scheme ot 

seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style could 

suit ? 
The men required that I should give through- 
out 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we banter'd little Lilia first: 
The women — and perhaps they felt their 

power, 
For something in the ballads which they 

sang. 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque. 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 
They haled banter, wish'd for something 

real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess— why 
Kol make her true-heruit — true-sublime? 



the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking: last, she 

fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
"You — tell us what we are" who mighl 

have told. 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of 

books. 
But that there rose a shout: the gates were 

closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming 

now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these: we 

climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of 

peace; 
Gray halls alone among their massive 

groves; 
Trim hamlets; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of 

wheat; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream; the 

seas; 
A red sail, or a white; and far beyond. 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of 

France. 

" Look tliere, a garden!" said my college 

friend. 
The Tory member's elder son " and there! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her 

off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 



154 



THE PRINCESS. 



Some reverence for the laws ourselves have 

made, 
Some patient force to change them when 

we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whift'! there comes a sudden 

heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head. 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, . 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the 

world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring out; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them. 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow 

seas! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " ourselves 

are full 
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This tine old world of oui^s is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time 
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that 

guides." 

In such discourse w-e gain'd the garden 
rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial English- 
man, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 



A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of 

those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to 

speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as 

closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the 

year 
To follow: a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery 

swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of 

the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king! Why should not these 

great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe? So thrice they 

cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and 

sat on. 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd: 

we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 
Perchance upon the future man: the walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls 

whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of the night. 
That range above the region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke 

them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of 

Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly. 
Disrobed the glittering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went, 




ENOCH ARDEN 




ENOCH ARDEN 



Long lines of cliff breaking have left a' 

chasm; 
And in the chasm are fuam and yellow 

sands; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and 

higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 

mill; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows; and a liazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago. 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: 
[n this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week: 
" This is my house and this my little wife." 
"Mine too " said Philip "turn and turn 

about ": 

When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger- 
made 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue 

eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out " I liate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 



And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 
To purchase his own boat, and make a 

home 

For Annie; and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a 

year 
On board a merchantman, and made him- 
self 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-stream- 
ing seas: 
And all men look'd upon him favorably: 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth 

May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a 

home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward 
the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide. 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and 

small, ■ 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 

(157) 



'58 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd. 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood; 
There, while the rest were loud in merry- 
making, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and 

past 
Bearing a lifelong burden in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrilv rang the 

bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy 

years. 
Seven happy years of health and compe 

tence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 
With children; first a daughter. In him 

woke. 

With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean 

spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter 

gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, , 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human 

change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Upen'd a larger haven: thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea; 
And once when there, and clambering on 

a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: 
A limb was broken when they lifted him; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one: 
Another hand crept too across his trade 



Taking his bread and theirs: and on him 

fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night. 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, a beggar: then he 

pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes to 

me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that 

ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued 

him. 
Reporting of his vessel China bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he 

go? 
There yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have 

the place? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it. 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance ap- 

pear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing: yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone- — the children — what 

to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans; 
So sell the boat — and yet he loved her 

well- 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd 

in her! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she 

brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in 

trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — ■ 
So might she keep the house while he was 

gone. . 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice or 

thrice^ — - 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



159 



With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: 
Then moving homeward came on Annie 

pale. 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled father- 
like, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had 

girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will: 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear. 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear chiUiren, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his 

hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and 

stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at liome. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death- scaffold raising, shrill'd 

and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand. 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and 

he, 

Wlio needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of fare- 
well 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to 

him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 



Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire forme, 
Vox I '11 be back, my girl, before you know 

it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle "and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. 
And make him merry, when I come home 

again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he 

turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she 

heard. 
Heard and not heard him; as the village 

girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her. 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke •' O Enoch, you are 
wise; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look 

on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day); get you a seaman's 

glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 

fears." 

But when the last of those last moments 

came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor 

holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His: He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping 

wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness. 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch 

said 
"Wake him not; lethim sleep; how should 

the child 
Remember this ?" and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his 

way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd 
came, 
Borrow'd p. glass, but all in vain: perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not: and while he stootl on 

• deck 
Weaving, the moment and the vessel past 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for 

him; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his 

grave. 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies. 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding " what would Enoch 

say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for 

less 
Than what she gave in buying what she 

sold: 
She fail'd and saddcn'd knowing it; and 

thus. 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance. 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and 
grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 



W^ith all a mother's care: nevertheless, 
W'hether her business often call'd her 

from it. 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could 

tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her 

peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon 

her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely " said Philip " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort"; therefore 

went. 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 
Annie, 1 came to ask a favor of you." 



He 



the 



her moan'd 



spoke; tne passion 

reply 
"Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am !" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to her: 

" I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said 
You chose the best among us— a strong 

man: 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely? not to see the 

world — 
For pleasure?- — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been or yours: that was his 

wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were 

lost. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



i6i 



And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running 

wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then lie shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school; 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the 

wall 
Answer'd "I cannot look you in the face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me 

down ; 
And now I thinl\ your kindness breaks me 

down ; 
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me: 
He will repay you: money can be repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie?" 

There she turn'd. 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon 

him. 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passion- 
ately. 
And passed into the little, gaith beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 
school. 
And bought them needful books, and every- 
way, 
Like one who does his duty by hi? own. 
Made himself theirs; and tho' fo' Annie's 

sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dear .st wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, gardei -herbs and 

fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 

II 



To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 
waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: 
Scarce could the woman when he came 

upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ears with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with 

him . 

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going we know not where: and so ten 

years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children 

long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them; then they 

begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and 

saying to him 
"Come with us Father Philip" he denied; 
Hut when the children pluck'd at him to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their 

wish. 
For was not Annie with them? and they 

went. 

But after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her; and sighing "let me rest" she 

said: 
So Philip rested with her well- content; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant 

cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made '. 

plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or 

broke 



162 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



The lithe rehictant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark 

hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow: at last he said 
t Lifting his honest forehead " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the 

wood. 
Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a 

word. 
" Tired? " but her face had fall'n upon her 

hands; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
♦' The ship was lost " he said " the ship 

was lost! 
No more of that! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite?" And 

Annie said 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho' I know not when it fust came 

there, 
I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let me 

speak: 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you 

know — • 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father: I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burden, save my care for you and yours : 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know." 



Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she 
spoke: 
«' You have been as God's good angel in 

our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can once love twice? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" 
" I am content" he answer'd " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." *' O " she cried 
Scared as it were "dear Philip, wait awhile: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come-- 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 

wait a little !" Philip sadly said 
Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." "Nay"she cried 
" I am bound: you have my promise — in a 

year: 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?" 
And Philip answer'd " 1 will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing 

up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the 

wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his 

hand. 
Saying gently " Annie, when I spoke to 

you. 
That was your hour of weakness. I was 

wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free. ' 
Then Annie weeping answer'd "I ai)i 

bound." 

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, 
While^yet she went about her household 

ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her 

face. 



Is it 



year 



r? ' 



Claiming her promise. 

she ask'd. 

" Yes, if the nuts " he said •' be ripe again ; 
Come out and see." But she — she put him 

oft— 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



163 



So much to look to — such a change — a 

month — 
Give her a month — she knew tliat she was 

bound — 
A month — no more Then Pliilip with his 

eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your 

own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on: 
And others laugh'd at her and Pliilip too. 
As simple folks that know not their own 

minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own 

son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan! and all these things 

fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoc 1 is he gone?" 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of 

night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from her bed, and struck herself a 

, light. 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under the palm-tree." That was noth- 
ing to her: 
No meaning there: she closed the Book 

and slept: 
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, 



Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun: 
"He is gone" she thought "he is happy, 

he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be 

palms 
Whereof the happy people strewing cried 
'Hosanna in the highest!'" Here she 

woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to 

him 
"There is no reason why we should not 

wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, 

" both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the 

bells. 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence; a whisper on her 

ear. 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, 

often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch. 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common to her 

state. 
Being with child: but when her child was 

born. 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 
Then the new mothet came about her heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch? prosperously 

saii'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting 

forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 

shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world. 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles. 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 



There Enoch traded 
bought . 



for himself, and 



1 64 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Quaint monsters for the market of those The lightning Hash of insect and of bird, 

tinies, The lustre of the long convolvuluses 

A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. That coil'd around the stately stems, and 

I ran 

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first jr^.^ to the limit of the land, the glows 

indeed And glories of the broad belt of the world, 

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, I All these he saw; but what he fain had seen 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head j^g j,o^,lj ^^^ see, the kindly human face, 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her j^Tqj. ^^.^^ hg^r a kindly voice, but heard 

tows: 'The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds vari-jj^e league-long roller thundering on the 

able, ! reef. 

Then baffling, a long course of them; and j^g moving whisper of the huge trees that 

last [ branch'd 

Storm, such as drove her under moonless ^nd blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 

heavens I Qf some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 

Till hard upon the cry of " breakers" came ^s down the shore he ranged, or all day 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all | lono- 

But Enoch and two others. Half the night, c^^^^ ofte^ in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken ^ shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: 

spars, _ "Ko sail from day to day, but every day 



These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 



No want was there of human sustenance. 



The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east; 

_. r r ■ • w I J • u- ^ The blaze upon his island overhead; 

Soft fruitafie, mighty nuts, and nourishing „,, ,, *^ ,r . ^ .u ^ 

'^Z ^ •' ' "il he blaze upon the waters to the west; 

100 s, 1^,1 ! Then the great stars that globed themselves 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take ■ \\ 

,11 ir I J .1 \ •. ^ I in Heaven, 

Ihe helpless life so wild that it was tame.^j^^ hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
rhere in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge.. ^j^^ ^^^^.j.,^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ sunrise-but no sail. 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves oi 



palm, a hut 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three. 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 



Hurt 



There often as he watch'd or seem'd to 
watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
For one, the youngest, hardly more than Before him haunting him, or he himself 
l^i, . 1 Moved haunting people, things and places, 

in lliat night of sudden ruin and: . known 

^^,,.gj,]^ I Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 

Laylingeringoutathree-years'death-in-life. The babes, their babble, Annie, the small 

They could not leave him. After he was, house, 

„,,j^g The climbing street, the mill, the leafy 

The two remaining found a fallen stem; lanes. 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 'The peacock-yewtre and the lonely Hall, 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell jThe horse he drove, the boat he sold, the 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. , chill 

In those two deaths he read God's warning' November dawns and dewy-gloonyng 

"wait.'^ j downs, 

[The gentle shower, the smell of dying 
The mountain wooded to the peak, the leaves, 

lawns iAnd the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

And winding glades high up like ways to 



Heaven 
The slendor coco's drooping crown of 
plumes, 



Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and faraway — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



165 



Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started 

up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hate 

ful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not liis poor heart 
Spoken with That, wliich being every 

where 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all 

alone. 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy " seasons came and 

went 

Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined 

course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she 

lay: 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn. 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle. 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the 

shores 
With clamor. Downward from his moun 

tain-gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely 

clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd. 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what: and yet he led the 

way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew. 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden 

tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them under 

stand; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd they 

took aboard: 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 
Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd' to 

it: 
And clothes they gave him and free passage 

home; 
But oft he work'd among he rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 



Came from his county, or could answer 

him, 
If question'd, aught of what he cared to 

know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays. 
The vessel scarce sea- worthy; but ever- 
more 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no more to anyone. 
But homeward — home — what home? had 

he a home? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that 

afternoon. 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either 

chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
RoU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in 

gray; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh -naked tree the Robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it 

down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street havmg slowly 

stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity. 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the 

home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his 

babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro'. the drizzle) 

crept 
Still downward thinking "dead or dead to 

me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he 
went, 



l66 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone; but lie was 

gone 
Wlio kej)t it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
\Vuh daily-dwindling profits held the house; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garru- 
lous. 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so 

bow'd. 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the 

birth 
Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion: anyone, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller; only when she closed 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 

lost " 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering "cast away and lost"; 
Again in deeper inward whispers " lost!" 

Put Enoch yearn'd to see her face again; 
" If I miglit look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him 

forth. 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon 

him, 
Unspeakal)le for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square or comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 
street. 
The latest house to landward; but behind, 



With one small gate that open'd on the 

waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it: 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and 

stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, 

if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd 

board , 

Sparkled and shone; so genial was the 

hearth: 

And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 

arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 

smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life 
beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happi- 
ness. 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love, — 
Then iie, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, 

and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of 
doom, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



167 



Would shatter all the happiness of the 
hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate under- 
foot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 

found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that 
his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

*<Too hard to bear! why did they take 
me thence? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too! must 1 not speak to these? 
They know me not. I should betray my- 
self. 
Never: no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature 

fail'd a little. 
And he lay tranced; but when he rose and 

paced 
Back toward his solitary home again. 
All down the long and narrow street he 

went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burden of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will. 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. "This miller's 

wife " 
He said to Miriam " that you told me of, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives? 
" Ay, ay, poor soul " said Miriam, fear 

enowl 



If you could tell her you had seen him 

dead. 
Why, that would be her comfort "; and he 

thought 
" After the Lord has call'd me she shall 

know, 
I wait His time" and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 

help'd 

At lading and unlading the tall barks. 
That brought the stinted commerce of those 

days : 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself : 
Yet since he did but lalior for himself. 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live; and as the 

year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no 

more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his 

bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of lif« ap- 
proach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kind- 
lier hope 
On Enoch thinking " after I am gone. 
Then may she learn I loved her to the 

last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
" Dead" clamor'd the good woman " hear 

him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you 

round." 
"Swear" added Enoch sternly "on the 

book." 
And on the book- half-frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 



1 68 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



" Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ?" 
" Know him?" she said " I knew him far 

away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, 

he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her; 
" His head is low, and no man cares for 

him. 
I think I have not three days more to live; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
"You Arden, you! nay, — sure he was a 

foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again 
"My God has bow'd me down to what I 

am; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice 

been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; 
But awed and promise-bounden she for- 
bore, 
Saying only " See your bairns before you 

go! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied. 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the 

last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge 

you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 



Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for 

her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly know me living, let them come, 
I am their father; but she must not come. 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: 
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall 

see him. 
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am 

gone. 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her; 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this. 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice " a sail! a sail! 
I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no 

more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 




AYL MER'S FIELD, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 




A YLM ER'S FIELD, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793- 

Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, 

our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments. 
Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
Slipt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had 

served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place. 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty 

man. 
The county God — in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family 

tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king— 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the 

spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry- 
gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his 

own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than her. 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
Ai heiress and not heir regretfully? 
But "he that marries her marries her 

name" 



This fiat somewhat soothed himself and 

wife. 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook! 
A sleepy land where under the same wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by 

year; 
Where almost all the village had one name; 
Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy. 
Were open to each other; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well had 

made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his 

priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God; so sleepy was the land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd it 
so, 

Somewhere beneath his own low range of 
roofs. 

Have also set his many-shielded tree? 

There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage 
once, 

When the red rose was redder than itself, 

And York's white rose at red as Lancas- 
ter's, 

With wounded peace which each had prick'd 
to death. 

<' Not proven " Averill said, or laughingly 

(171) 



I72 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



" Some other race of Averills" — prov'n or 

no, 
What cared lie? what, if other or the same? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood. 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the iieartof Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Plamed in his cheek; and eager eyes, that 

still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd, 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, 
Their best and brightest, when they dwell 

on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 
But subject to the season or the mood. 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
We know not wherefore; bounteously made, 
And yet so finely that a troublous touch, 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, 

hers: 

So much the boy foreran; but when his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, 

he 
(Since Averill was a decade and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, ami 

roll'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone 

swing. 

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it 

green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass. 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms. 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pines. 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes 
For Edith and himself : or else he forged, 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck. 



Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true 

love 
Crown'd after trial; sketches rude and 

faint, 
But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for college-times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang. 
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman- 
grown. 
He wasted hours with Averill; there, when 

first 
The tented winter-field was broken up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland; there 

again 
When burr and bine were gather'd; lastly 

there 
At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of 

youth 
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering 

even 
My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them: dull and self-in- 
volved, 
Tall and erect, but bending from his height 
With half-allowing smiles for all the world. 
And mighty courteous in the main — his 

pride 
Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 
Would care no more for Leolin's walking 

with her 
Than for his old Newfounirlland's, when 

they ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
Tvvofooted at the limit of his chain. 
Roaring to make a third: and how should 

Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance- 
met eyes 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow 
Such dear familiarities of dawn? 
Seldom, but when he does. Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that 
they loved. 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



173 



By Averill; his, a brother's love that, hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her 

peace, 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
Who knows? but so they wander'd, hour by 

hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and 

drank 
The magic cup that fiU'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. 
For out beyond her lodges, were the brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them: here was one that, summer- 

blanch'd. 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy 
In Autuiim, parcel ivy-clad; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honey- 
suckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars: 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it; this, a milky-way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors; 
One, almost to the martin -haunted eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyliocks; 
Each, its own charm; and Edith's every- 
where; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor: 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving. 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past. 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing 

by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort, and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the poor 

roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than them- 
selves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored; 
He, loved for her and lor himself. A grasp 



Having the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true. 
Were no false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side, the 

girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink hve-beaded baby-soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whisper 

"Bless, 
God bless 'em: marriages are made in 

Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own,tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was. not fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the 

hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful: so when first he 

dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day, 
Sii Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
(Jf patron " Good! my lady's kinsman! 

good!" 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listeia : unawares they flitted off, 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in 

which. 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days: 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his 

life: 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he: 
I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one 
And most on Edith: like a storm he came. 
And shook the house, and like a storm he 

went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He llow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 



174 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Made by a breath. I know not whence at 

first, 
Nor of what race, the work; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last be- 
low. 
Was climbing up the valley; at whom he 

shot: 
Down from the beetling crag to which he 

clung. 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now ad- 
mired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please. 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scab- 
bard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of workman- 

- ship!" 
Slight was his answer " Well — I care not 

for it"; 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd his 

hand, 
" A gracious gift to give a lady, this!'' 
" But would it be more gracious " ask'd the 

girl 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady?" "Gracious? No " said 

he. 
«<Me? — but I cared not for it. O pardon 

me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
" Take it " she added sweetly " tho' his gift; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either ;" and he said 
"Why then I love it": but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he 

heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues 

and reds 
They talk'd of: blues were sure of it, he 

thought: 
Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kiU'd 
In such a bottom: " Peter had the brush. 
My Peter, first": and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been 

caught? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 



And rojling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
"The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him; 
We have him now": and had Sir Aylmer 

h eard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of 

it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one they 

knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a 

child? 
That cursed France with her egalities! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd accent) 

think — 
For people talk'd- — ^that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with his daughter? people talk'd — 
The boy might get a notion into him; 
The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : 
"The girl and boy, Sir, know their differ- 
ences! " 
" Good" said his friend "but watch!" and 

he " enough. 
More than enough. Sir! I can guard my 

own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same night; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough 

piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon 

him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets. 
Turning beheld the Powers uf the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; her, 
Coojing her false cheek with a featherfan, 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd, 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing 

hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. 
Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their 

lands. 
The last remaining pillar of their house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



175 



Their child." " Our chihl!" " Our heir- 
ess!" " Ours!" for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 
" Boy, mark me! for your fortunes are to 

make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of 

mine. 
N.)W inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Pcrplext her, made her half forget herself. 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible, 
For as we track ourselves — I say that this — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours for ever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — -but you shall not see 

her — - 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me: 
And you shall say that having spoken with 

me. 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed you 

know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match as 

this! 
Impossible, prodigious!" These were words. 
As meted by his measure of himself. 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after which. 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, " I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her. 
Never O never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from thestorm within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and cry- 
ing 

" Boy, should I find you by my doors again. 
My men shall lash you from them like a 

dog; 
Hence!" with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose; 
So, stammering " scoundrel " out of teeth 

that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but 

now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd 

Slowly and conscious of the ragefui 
eye 
T hat watch'd him, till he heard the ponder 
yus door 



Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the 

land. 
Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his broth- 
er's ran, 
And foam'd away his heart atAverill's ear: 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed: 
The man was his, had been his father's, 

friend: 
He must have seen, himself had seen it 

long; 
He must have known, himself had known: 

Ijesides, 
He never yet had set his daughter forth 
Here in the wcmian markets of the west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves be 

sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leo- 
lin to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more as son 
Than brother, let me tell you: I myself — 
What is their pretty saying? jilted, is it? 
Jilted I was: I say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 
The woman should have borne, humiliated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again to 

grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you: 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you: 1 know her: the worst thought 

she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand; 
She must prove true : for, brother, where two 

fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love are 

strength. 
And you are happy: let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, 

wealth. 
Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough 

was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this. 
Why twenty boys and girls should marry 

on it. 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon 

matle 
The harlot of the cities: nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 



176 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



That saturate soul with body 
■ name, 

Their ancient name! they viight be proud; 
its worth 

Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had 
look'd 

Darling, to-night! they must have rated hei 

Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant- 
lords, 

These partridge-breeders of a thousand 
years, 

Who hadmildew'd in their thousanik, do- 
ing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their dis- 
grace ! 

Fallback upon a name! rest, rot in that! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for nobleness! 

He had known a man, a quintessence of 
man. 

The life of all — who madly loved — and he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, 

Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 

He would not do it! her sweet face and 
faith 

Held him from that: but he had powers, 
he knew it: 

Back w ould he to his studies, make a name, 

Name, fortune too: the world should ring 
of him 

To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their 
graves: 

Chancellor, or what is greatest would he 
be— 

" O brother, I am grieved to learn yoiu' 

grief- 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say." 

At which, like one that sees his own ex- 
cess. 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd; and then was mute; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm: and honest Averill see- 
ing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and 

told 
The vintage — when i/iis Aylmer came of 

age- 
Then drank and past it; till at length the 

two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 



Name, tool] That much allowance must be made for 
I men. 

After an angiy dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with moi ning, but his purpose held. 



Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of htr 

Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prcst 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her: 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go. 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. "Writetome! 
They loved me, and because I love their 

child 
They hate me: there is war between us, 

dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must 

remain 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort: the wind 

blew; 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter 

tears. 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above ihtm roar'd the 

pine. 

So Leolin went; and as we task ourselves 
To leai n a language known but smatteringly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's 

room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurril- 
ous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decades 

deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died. 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already; litnt as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in 

hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he. 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise. 
Except when for a breathing-while at eve. 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



177 



Beside the river-bank: and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands ol 

power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts 01 

men 
Seem'd harder too; but the soft river-breeze 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to tlush his blood with air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, 
Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon, 
Drove in upon the student once or twice, 
Ran a Malayan muck against the times. 
Had gulden hopes for France and all man 

kind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at 

home 

With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile. 
And fain had haled him out into the world, 
And air'd him there: his nearer friend 

would say 
" Screw not the chord too sliarply lest it 

snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth 
From where his worldless heart had kept it 

warm. 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise: 
For heart, I think, help'd head: her letters 

too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she found 
Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 
Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he 

saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

But they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued them- 
selves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they 

lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their 

doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, 

made 
The nightly wircr of their innocent hare 
12 



Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale. 
And laughter to their lords: but those at 

home. 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the 

death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings in; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms. 
Last from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her: yet she bore it: yet her 

cheek 
Kept color: wondrous! but, O mystery! 
What amulet drew her down to that old oak, 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but 

now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 
Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove; 
Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 
Writhing a letter from his child, for which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 
A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly. 
But scared with threats of jail and halter 

gave 
To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 
The letter which he brought, and swore be- 
sides 
To play their go-between as heretofore 
Nor let them know themselves betray'd; and 

then. 
Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 
Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 
dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms. 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure- 
trove. 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — who 

made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth, 



178 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Listless in all despondence, — read ; and tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent; and 

burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self defied, 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of 

scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden babe. 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averill 

wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded not, 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raging return'd: nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove ol 

pines, 
Watch'd even there; and one was set to 

watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them 

all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings: once in- 
deed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in 

her. 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd him: that one 

kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth; 
Seconded, for my lady follovv'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose: and then 

ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love. 
Or ordeal by kindness; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a sneer; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies: 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word; 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life 
Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house. 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or 

men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found the 

girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of fire. 
Where careless of the household faces near 



And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 
Star to star vibrates light : may soul to 

soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own? 
So, — from afar, — tcuich as at once? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named 

his name. 
Did the keen shriek " yes love, yes Edith, 

yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke. 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames. 
His body half flung forward in pursuit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a 

flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he Lad made the 

cry; 
And being much befool'd and idiotcd 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death, 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith,redden'd with no bandit's blood : 
" From Edith " was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his 
death. 
And when he came again, his flock be- 
lieved — 
Beholding how the years which are not 

Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thousand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of lile. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of 

the first. 
And being used to find her pastor texts. 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him 
To speak before the people of her child, 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day 

rose : 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it; for hard on these, 
A breathless burden of low folded heavens 
Stifled and chilj'd at once: but every roof 
Sent out a listener: many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harsimess and the hapless 
loves 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



179 



And double death were widely mui-mur'd, 
left 

Their own gray tower, or plain-faced taber- 
nacle, 

To hear hinr; all in mourning these, and 
those 

With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 

Or kerchief; while the church,— one might, 
J except 

■'For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, 
— made 

Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd 

Above them, with his hopes in either grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Ave- 

riU, 

His face magnetic to the hand from which 

Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 

His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse 

" Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate!" 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed half frighted all his flock: 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry 

heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud. 
And all but those who knew the living 

God- 
Eight that were left to make a purer world — 
When since had flood, tire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of 

Heavens, 
And worship! their own darkness as th 

Highest? 
"Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute 

Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 
For with thy worst self hast thou clothed 

thy God. 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine 

own lusts! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 



And princely halls, and farms, and flowing 

lawns. 
And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for hii)i; for 

thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die; 
And tho' thou numberest with the followers 
Of One who cried ' leave all and follow me.' 
Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from 

Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty 

Clod, 
Count the more base idolater of the two; 
Crueller: as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' 

the smoke. 
The blight of low desires — darkening thine 

own 
To thine own likeness; or if one of these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight and 

fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those who most have cause to sorrow for 

her — ■ 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn. 
Fair as the Angel that said ' hail' she seem'd. 
Who entering fiU'd the house with sudden 

light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd: where 

indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven 
Dawn'd sometime through the doorway? 

whose the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom? The poor child of 

shame. 
The common care whom no one cared for, 

leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 
As with the mother he had never known. 
In gambols; for her fresh and innocent 

eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 



i8o 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Broke into nature's music when they saw 

her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls 

with tlowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? 
One burden and she would not lighten it? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled 

out, 
How sweetly would she glide between your 

wraths, 
And steal you from each other! for she 

walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee! 
And one — of him I was not bid to speak — 
W^as always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely 

tried. 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge: hope 

with me. 
Whose .shame is that, if he went hence with 

shame? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, 
' My home is left unto me desolate.' " 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; 

but some. 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than 

those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, 

scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd 

he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but 

fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, 
Sat anger-charm'dfrom sorrow, soldierlike. 
Erect: but when the preacher's cadence 

flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his 

face. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth; 



And " O pray God that he hold up" she 

thought 
" Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 

" Nor yours the blame — for who beside 
your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me you cry 
' Our house is left unto us desolate! ' 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou 
known, 

thou that stonest, hadst thou understood 
The things Vielonging to thy peace and ours! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste ' Repent '? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in the brciid 
Cries ' come up hither,' as a prophet to us? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for iny loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your 

prayers. 
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. 
But I that thought myself long-suffering, 

meek, 
Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, and 

mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd 

my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 
To inflame the tribes: but there — out yonder 

—earth 
Lightens from her own central Hell — O there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so 

fast. 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd 

France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering 

wolf. 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then? 
Was this a time for these to iiaunt their 
j pride? 

■May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as 

those 
jWhich hid the Holiest from the people's 

1 eyes 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Ere the great death, shroud this great sin 

from all! 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass 

it: 
O rather pray for those and pity them, 
Who thro' their own desu'e accomplish'd 

bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the 
' grave — 

Who broke the bond which they desired to 

break. 
Which else had link'd their race with times 

to come — 
W^howove coarse webs to snare her purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, 

but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice? 
Have not our love and reverence left them 

bare? 
Will not another take their heritage? 
Will there be children's laughter in their 

hall 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their ancient 

friend, 
I made by these the last of all my race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the 

Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 

' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate'?" 



Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre 

face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'n to his last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied; for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the door; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 



Ended he had not, but she brook'd no 
more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly. 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a 

sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that: fain had she closed 

them now. 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she 
laid. 



But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one 

month. 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours. 
The childless mother went to seek her child; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the 

change. 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring for ever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall; the man became 
Imbecile: his own word was " desolate"; 
Dead for two years before his death was he; 
But when the second Christmas came, es- 
caped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And where the two contrived their daugh- 
ter's good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his 

run. 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain 
bores. 



l82 



THE BROOK. 



The rabbit fondles his own harmless face, 
The slow -worm creeps, and the thin weasel 

there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



THE BROOK 



"Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the 
East 

And he for Italy — too late — too late : 

One whom the strong sons of the world de- 
spise; 

For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and 
share. 

And mellow metres more than cent for cent; 

Nor could he understand how money breeds, 

Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could 
make 

The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived! In our schoolbooks we 

say. 
Of those that held their heads above the 

crowd, 
Theyflourish'd then or then; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf. 
When all the wood stands in a mist of green, 
And nothing perfect: yet the brook he 

loved. 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half- English Neilgherry 

air 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy. 
To me that loved him; for ' O brook,' he 

says, 
' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his 

rhyme, 
•Whence come you?' and the brook, why 

not? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 



Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may corne and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 

worn out. 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley 

bridge. 
It has more ivy; there the river; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river 

meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bul)l)le into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret, 

By many a field and fallow. 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow- weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than brook 
or bird; 
Old Philip: all about the fields you caught 
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
lligh-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer 
grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one child! 
A maiden of our centuiy, yet most meek; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand; 



THE BROOK. 



183 



Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 

In gloss and hue the chestnut, when tlie 

shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did lier a good turn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and lieart 

with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the 

week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund; crost 
By that old bridge whicli, half in ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The 

gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, 
Stuck; and he clamor'd from a casement, 

' run ' 
To Katie somewhere in tlie walks below, 
' Run, Katie!' Katie never ran: she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine bow- 
ers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down, 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

" What was it? less of sentiment than 
sense 
Had Katie; not illiterate; nor of those 
Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears, 
And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthro- 
pies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had quar- 

rel'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel? None, she said, 

no cause; 
James liad no cause: but when I prest the 

cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
W^hich anger'd her. Who anger'd James? 

I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from 

mine, 
And sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 
If James were coming. ' Coming every day,' 
She answer'd, 'ever longing to e.xplain, 
But evermore her father came across 



With some long-winded tale, and broke 

him sliort; 
And James departed vext with him and her.' 
ll(jw could 1 lielp her? ' Would I — was it 

wrong?' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she 

spoke) 
' O would I take her fatlier for one hour, 
P'or one half-hour, and let him talk to me!' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where 

James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the surf. 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow- 
sweet. 

" O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake! 
For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm: full willingly he rose: 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling 

lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his ma- 
chines; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, 

his dogs; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea- 
hens; 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts: 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he 

took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming 

each. 
And naming those, his friends, for whom 

they were: 
Then crost the common into Darnley chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and 

fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said: 
' That was the four-year-old I sold the 

Squire.' 
And there he told a long long-winded tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he 

ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore tliat he wasmad, 
But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; 
He gave them line; and five days after that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 



THE BROOK. 



Who then and there had ofter'd something 

more, 
But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; 
He knew the man; tlie cok would fetch its 

price; 
He gave them line; and how by chance at 

last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in. 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale. 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. j 

' Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, 
he, 
Poor fellow, could he lielp it? recom- 
menced. 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Belleropon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, 
And following our own shadows thiice as 

long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's door 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunljeams dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may cgnie and men may go. 

But I go on for ever. 

Yes, men may come and go; and these are 

gone. 
All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, 

sleeps, 



Not by the well-known stream and rustic 

spire. 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi: sleeps in peace: and he, 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 
Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb: 
I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other stars, 
And breathes in converse seasons. All are 

gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the 

brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn. 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low 

breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings; 
And he look'd up. There stood a maiden 

near. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the 

shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within: 
Then, wondering, ask'd her " Are you from 

the farm? " 
" Yes " answer'd she. " Pray stay a little: 

pardon me; 
What do they call you? " " Katie." "That 

were strange. 
What surname?" "Willows." "No!" 

"That is my name." 
" Indeed! " and here he look'd so self-per- 

ple.\t. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, 

till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes. 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his 

dream. 
Then looking at her; " Too happy, fresh 

and fair. 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best 

bloom. 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you not heard? " said Katie, "we 
came back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her? so they itaid on board. 




•' My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps. 
Not bv the luell-known stream and rustic spire. 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of BrunclL'schi:'' 

The Brook, Page 184. 



SEA DREAMS. 



»8S 



Sif, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with 

me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field: 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come 



SEA DREAMS. 



A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret 

years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to 

the sea: 
For which his gains were dock'd, however 

small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work; 

besides. 
Their slender household fortunes (for the 

man 
Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep: 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credulous- 

ness. 
And that one imctuous mouth which lured 

him, rogue. 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian 

mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd 

a coast. 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. 
At close of day; slept, woke, and went the 

next, 
The Sal)lmth, pious variers from the church, 
To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men 
Announced the coming doom, and fulmi 

nated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed: 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and 

shriek'd 
" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he 

held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel; "Thus with vio- 
lence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 
Then comes the close." The gentle-heart- 
ed wife 



Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; 
He at his own: but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced the 

shore, 
Ran in and out the K)ng sea-framing caves. 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce 

believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the 

sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now on 

cliff, 
Lingering about the thymy promontories, 
three Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 
And rosed in the east: then homeward and 

to bed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian 

hope 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night. 
Let not the sun go down upon your 

wrath," 
Said, " Love, forgive him": but he did not 

speak; 
And silenced by that silence lay the wife. 
Remembering her dear Lord who died for 

all, 
And musing on the little lives of men, 
And how they mar this little by their feuds. 



But while the two were sleeping, a ful 
tide 

Rose with ground-swell, which, on the fore- 
most rocks 

Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea- 
smoke. 

And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and 
fell 

In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon. 

Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 

Heard thro' the living roar. At this the 
babe, 

Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd 
and woke 

The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 

" A wreck, a wreck!" then turn'd, and 
groaning said, 

"Forgive! How many will say, 'for- 
give,' and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer! No; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best? 



iS6 



SEA DREAMS. 



Not first, and third, which are a ri]3cr first? 
Too ripe, too late! they come too late for 

use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Something divine to warn them of their 

foes: 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him, 
Said, 'trust him not'; but after, when 1 

came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table; drank his costly wines; 
Made more and more allowance for Iiis 

talk; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all. 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork: there is no such 

mine, 
None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea 

roars 
Ruin: a fearful night! " j 

" Not fearful; fair," 
Said the good wife, '< if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair: you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams?" j 

" O yes," he said, «' I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land, 
And I from out the l)oundless outer deep 1 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one' 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the 

clifis. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved: 
upon it I 

In darkness: then I saw one lovely star ; 
Larger and larger. 'What a world,' I 

thought, 
To live in! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream be- 
yond: 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings: 
And here the night-light flickering in my 

eyes 
Awoke me,' 



" That was then your dream," she said, 

"Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
I And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: 
jl wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her 

of it: 
I'lt came,' she said, 'by working in the 
j mines': 

O then to ask her of my shares, I thought; 
And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her 
i head. 

iAnd then the motion of the current ceased, 
.And there was rolling thunder; and we 

reach 'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burrs and 

thorns; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep 
t hill 

[Trod out a path: I follow'd; and at top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me. 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thunder, 

past 
In sunshine: right across its track there lay, 
Down in theVater, a long reef of gold. 
Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at 

first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd world 
Still so much gold was left; and then I 

fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter on 

it. 
And fearing waved my arm to warn them 

off; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 
(I thought I could have died to save it) 

ncar'd, 
Touch 'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, 

and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life; the woman honest 

Work; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort 
him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down 
1 and broke 



SEA DREAMS. 



187 



Hereafter; and he meant, he said he meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you 

well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one eye 

askew ' — 
Love, let me quote those lines, that you may 

learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye askew. 
So false, he partly took himself for true; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was 

dry. 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye; 
Who, never naming God, except for gain. 
So never took that useful name in vain; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his 

tool. 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he 

forged. 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he 

gorged; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself had 

thriven.' 
How like you this old satire?" 

' Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it: he had never kindly heart. 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind. 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

" — But round the North, a light. 
So are we all: but do nof call him, love, j A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay. 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, I And ever in it a low musical note 

forgive. ISwell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a 

His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his ridge 

friend Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 

Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about! Grew with the growing note, and when the 
A silent court of justice in his breast, I note 

Himself the judge and jury, and himself ;Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd: | cliffs 

And that drags down his life; then conies'; Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as 

what comes 1 that 



The glass with little Margaret's medicine in 

it; 

And, breaking that, you made and broke 

your dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband; " yes- 
terday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me 

the books!' 
He dodged me with a long and loose ac- 
count. 
'The books, the books!' but he, he could 

not wait. 
Bound on a matter he of life and death: 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven 

and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me 

well; 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat aftectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' My dearest 

friend. 
Have faith, have faith! W^e live by faith,' 

said he; 
' And all things work together for the good 
Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him 

—last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless- 

you went. 
I stood like one that had received a blow: 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back. 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul?" said the 
good wife; 



1 88 



SEA DREAMS. 



Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no 

more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see. 
One after one: and then the great ridge 

drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music: ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round. 
Some crying, ' Set them up ! they shall not 

fall!' 
And others ' Let them lie, for they have 

fall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled: and she 

grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to 

find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note; and ever as their 

shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the 

crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd 

their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks; and swept 

away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men oi 

stone. 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I flxt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high among 

the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up on one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I 

woke. 
And my dream awed me: — well — but what 

are dreams? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a 

glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

<' Child? No!" said he, " but this tide's 
roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, 



And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music these) 
Went both to make your dream : but if 

.they were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd 

about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too 

like 
The discords dear to the musician. No- 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns 

of heaven: 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil!" 

" ' True' indeed! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the 

shore; 
While you were running down the sands, 

and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow 

flap, 
Good man, to please the child. She brought 

strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before you knew. We i?nisi forgive the 

dead." 

" Dead! who is dead?" 

"The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him. 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 

" Dead? he? of heart-disease? what 
heart had he 
To die? dead!" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge him 

with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough 

voice 
(Yoir spoke so loud) has roused the child 

again. 
Sleep, little l^irdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ' ? well then, sleep, 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from him she 

foved. 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the 

night 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



189 



Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant 

liough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, 

sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie. 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

"She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong: forgive him, 

dear. 
And I shall sleep the sounder!" 

Then the man 
yet live, the worst is yet to 



" His deeds 

come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be 

sound: 
I do forgive him!' 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 

" Your own will be the sweeter," and they 

slept 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

[This poem is founded upon a story in Boccaccio. 

A young lover, Julian, whose cousin and foster- 
sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and 
rival, Lionel, endeavors to iianatc the story of his 
own love for her and the stranj^e sequel of it. He 
speaks of having been haunted in delirium by 
visions and the sound of bells, sometimes tolling 
for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; 
but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches 
the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale.] 

He flies the event: he leaves the event to 

me: 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away; the bells, 



Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and 

heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you saw, 
As who should say " continue." ' Well, he 

had • 

One golden hour — of triumph shall I say? 
Solace at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in that hour of 

his! 
He moved thro' all of it majestically — 
Restrain'd himself quite to the close — but 

now — 

Whether they iue7-e his lady's marriage- 
bells. 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd: but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But these, their gloom, the mountains and 

the Bay, 
The whole land vveigh'd him down as 

^tna does 
The Giant of Mythology: he would go. 
Would leave the land for ever, and had 

gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, " Go not yet," 
Some warning, and divinely as it seem'd 
By that which follow'd — but of this I deem 
As of the visions that he told — the event 
Glanced back upon them in his after life. 
And partly made them — tho' he knew it 
not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not look 

at her — 
No, not for months: but, when the eleventh 

moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and 

said. 
Would you could toll me out of life, but 

found — • 
All softly as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear. 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days without a 

pulse: 
All that look'd on her had pronounced her 

dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in elm), 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own kin. 



I90 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



What did he then? not die: he is here 
and hale — 
Not phinge headforemost from the moun- 
tain there, 
And leave the name of LcA'er's Leap : not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper now, 
Thought that he knew it. " This, I stay'd 
for this; 

love, I have not seen you for so long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love. 

And kiss her on the lips. She is his no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the dim 

vault, 
And, making there a sudden light, beheld 
All round about him that which all will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which the 

moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the 

vault. 

" It was my wish," he said, " to pass, to 

sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great day 
Peal'd on us with that music which rights 

all. 
And raised us hand in hand." And kneeling 

there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once was 

man. 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as 

mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her^ 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till helpless 

death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but I 

wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in death; 
But, placing his true hand upon her heart, 
" O, you warm heart," he moan'd, " not 

even death 
Can chill you all at once": then starting, 

thought 



His dreams had come again. " Do I wake 

or sleep? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more?" It beat — the heart — it 

beat; 
Faint — but it beat: at which his own began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that it 

drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
But when at last his doubts were satisfied, 
He raised her softly from the sepulchre, 
And, wrapping her all over with his cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but everni()re 
Holding his golden burden in his arms, 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she was 

born. 

There the good mother's kindly minister- 

With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life : she rais'd an eye that ask'd 
"Where?" till the things familiar to her 

youth 
Had made a silent answer: then she spoke, 
" Here! and how came I here? " and learn- 
ing it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I think) 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
" Ay, but you know that you must give me 

back : 
Send! bid him come"; but Lionel was 

away — 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none knew 

where. 
"_He casts me out," she wept, "and goes," 

— a wail 
That seeming something, yet was nothing, 

born 
Not irom believing mind, but shatter'd nerve, 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had return'd, 
" O yes, and y(5u," she said, "and none but 

you. 
For you have given me life and love again, 
And none but you yourself shall tell him of it, 
And you shall give me back when he re- 
turns." 
" Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, "here, 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to your- 
self; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay. 
No, not an hour; but send me notice of hini 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



191 



When he returns, and then will I return, 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love." And faintly she replied, 
"And I will <\o yostr will, and none shall 
know." 

Not know ? with such a secret to be known. 
But all their house was old and loved them 

both, 
And all the house had known the loves of 

both; 
Had died almost to serve them any way, 
And all the land was waste and solitary; 
And then he rode away; but after this. 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And tiuis our lonely lover rode away, 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh. 
There fever seized upon him: myself was 

then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest an 

hour; 
And sitting down to such a base repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs (for everything was 

vile) 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him. 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating 

hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush! 
But there from fever and my care of him 
Sprung up a friendship that may help us 

yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary coast, 
And waited for her message, piece by piece, 
I learnt the drearier story of his life; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady made 
Dwelt in his fancy: did he know her worth. 
Her beauty even? should he not be taught, 
Ev'n by the price that others set upon it, 
The value of that jewel he had to guard? 

Suddenly came her notice and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, the 
soul : 
That makes the sequel pure; tho' some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 



Not such am I : and yet I say, the bird 
That will not hear my call, however sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers him — 
What matter? there are others in the wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of 

hers — 
Oh! such dark eyes! and not her eyes alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd on 

earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's seem'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

.So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her arms! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me life 

again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you! Kiss him, and then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! his 
own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. 

But he was all the more resolved to go. 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying him 
By that great love they both had borne the 

dead. 
To come and revel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land for evermore; 
And then to friends— they were not many — 

who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of his, 
And bade them to a banquet of farewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast: I never 
Sat at a costlier; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one. 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd; and 

beneath. 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that. Heaven 

knows when, 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten sun 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of gloom. 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round in 

gold- 
Others of glass as costly — some with gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 



192 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



And trebling all the rest in value — Ah heav- 
ens! 
Why need I tell you all? — suffice to say 
That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought Ijefore the guest: and they, the 

guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's 

eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden hour). 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his, 
And that i"esolved self-exile from a land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n than 

rich, 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor, 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the frame. 
And just above the parting was a lamp: 
So the sweet figure folded round with night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a 
smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we ate and 
diank, 
And might — the wines being of such noble- 
ness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about it all: 
What was it? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats; but ever and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his use; 
And when the feast was near an end, he 
said : 



custom 



the Orient 



"There is 

friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honor those who feast with him, he 

brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom — " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with meeting 

hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beautiful! 
Who could desire more beauty at a feast?" 



The lover answer'd, " There is more than 
one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 
This custom steps yet further when the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he has shown him gems or gold. 
He brings and sets before him in rich guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as these. 
The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 
' O my heart's lord, would I could show 

you,' he says, 
' Ev'n my heart too.' And I propose to- 
night 
To show you what is dearest to my heart. 
And my heart too. 

•' But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor many years ago; 
He had a faithful servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on death, 
His master would not wait until he died. 
But bade his menials bear him from the 

door, 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago. 
Who found the dying servant, took him 

home. 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his 

life. 
I ask you now, should this first master claim 
His seivice, whom does it belong to? him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved his 

life?" 

This question, so flung down before his 

guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at length 
When some were doubtful how the law 

would hold. 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 

phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as he 

went. 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by. 
Affirming that as long as either lived. 
By all the laws of love and gratefulness, 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile, 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 



193 



As at a strong conclusion — " body and soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his 
will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to me 
To bring Camilla down before them all. 
And crossing her own picture as she came, 
And looking as much lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier than all others — on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from under this 
A veil, that seem'd no more than gilded air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that grace of 

hers, 
Slow-moving as a wave against the wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty babe. 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked 

them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling it. 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated 

in, — 
While all the guests in mute amazement 

rose, — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall, 
Before the board, there paused and stood, 

her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet, 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men; who 

cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jewell'd 

world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to prove, 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 

"My guests," said Julian: "you are 
honor'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost: in her behold 
Ot all my treasures the most beautiful. 
Of all things upon earth the dearest to me 
Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 
And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 
Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too, 

13 



And heard him muttering, " So like, so like; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers— O God, so 

like!" 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was 

dumb. 
And then some other question'd if she came 
From foreign lands, and still she did not 

speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers: but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a word. 
Which made the amazement more, till one 

of them 
Said, shuddering, " Her spectre! " But his 

friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her, dumb !" 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all: 
" She is but dumb, because in her you see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke about, 
Obedient to her second master now; 
Which will not last. I have here to-night a 

guest 
So bound to me by common love and loss — 
What! shall I bind him more? in his be- 
half. 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the clearest to me, 
Not only showing? and he himself pro- 
nounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all of 

you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not suffer 

that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial; thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his own 

hall; 
And then rose up, and with him all his 

guests 
Once more as by enchantment; all but he 
Lionel, who fain had ris«in, but fell again. 
And sat as if in chains-- to whom he said: 

" Take my free gift, my cousin, for your 
wife; 
And were it only for the giver's sake, 



194 



LUCRETIUS. 



And tho' she seem so like the one you lost, 

Yet cast her not away so suddenly, 

Lest there be none left here to bring her 

back : 
I leave this land for ever." Here he ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one hand, 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 
lie slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead 

wife 
Rush'd each at each with a cry, that rather 

seem'd 
For some new death than for a life renew'd; 
At this the very babe began to wail; 
At once they turn'd, and caught and brought 

him in 
To their charr>i'd circle, and, half-killing 

him 
With kisses, rcmnd him closed and claspl 

again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
From wife and child, and lifted up a face 
All over glowing with the sun of life. 
And love, and boundless thanks— the sight 

of this 
So frighted our good friend, that turning to 

me 
And saying, " It is over: let us go " — 
There were our horses ready at the doors — 
We bade them no farewell, but mounting 

these 
He past for ever from his native land; 
And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. 



LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLlA, wedded to Lucretius, found 
Her master cold; for when the morning flush 
Of passion and the first embrace had died 
Between them, tho' he loved her none the 

less. 
Yet often when the woman heard his foot 
Return from pacings in the field, and ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master took 
Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 
Half buried in some weiglitier argument, 
Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 
And long roil of tiie Hexameter — he past 
To turn aiul ponder those three hundred 

scrolls 
Left by tiic Teacher whom he held divine. 
She brouk'd it not; but wrathful, petulant, 



Dreaming some rival, sought and found a 

witch 
Who brew'd the philtre which had power, 

they said. 
To lead an errant passion home again. 
And this, at times, she mingled with his 

drink. 

And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked broth 
Confused the chemic labor of the blood. 
And tickling the brute brain within the man's 
Made havoc among those tender cells, and 

check'd 
His power to shape: he loathed himself; and 

once 
After a tempest woke upon a morn 
That mock'd him with returning calm, and 

cried: 

"Storm in the night! for thrice I heard 
the rain 
Rushing; and once the flash of ? thunder- 
bolt— 
Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and 

show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, 
what dreams! 
For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Per- 
chance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 
Just ere the waking: terrible! for it seem'd 
A void was made in Kature; all her bonds 
Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom 

streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe. 
Ruining along the illimitable inane. 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever: that was mine, my dream, I knew 

it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 
His function of the woodland: but the next! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on earth. 
And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, 

sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 
For these I thought my dream would show 

to me. 
But ijirls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 



LUCRETIUS. 



195 



Hired animalisms, vile as those that made Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse Her Deity false in human-amorous tears; 
Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 

me drove 1 Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 

111 narrowing circles til! I yell'd again Calliope to grace his golden verse — 

Ilalf-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — Ay, and this Kypris also — did I lake 
Was it the hrst beam of my latest day? That popular name of thine to shadow forth 

The all-generating powers and genial heat 
" Then, then, from utter gloom stood Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick 
out the breasts, blood 

The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a Of tattle, and light is large, and lambs are 

sword glad 

Now over and now under, now direct. Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 

Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of 

shamed flowers: 

At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire,! Which things appear the work of mighty 
The tire that left a roofless Ilion, I Gods. 

Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that 

I woke. " The Gods I and if I go ?,7_)' work is left 

|Unfinish'cl — ?/"Igo. The Gods, who haunt 
"Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, The lucid interspace of world and world, 
thine, I Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a 

Because I would not one of thine own doves,! wind. 

Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee? thine,' Nor ever falls the least white star of snow. 
Forgetful how my rich procemion makes I Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans. 
Thy glory fly alon^ the Italian field, [Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 

In lays that will outlast thy Deity? [Their sacred everlasting calm! and such, 

Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
" Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue' Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these Letting his own life go. The Gods, the 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all? j Gods! 

Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof | if all be atoms, how then shoidd the Gods 
From envy, hate and pity, and spite and^ Being atomic not be dissoluble, 

scorn, iNot follow the great law? My master held 

Live the great life which all our greatest fain. That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 

I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
I Of flowery clauses onward tg the proof 



Would follow, centred in eternal calm. 

ike our 



! That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? 

I meant? 

I have forgotten what I meant: my mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 



" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, 
selves 
Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to| 

thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust of 

blood '< Look where another of our Gods, the 

That makes a steaming slaughter-house of .Sun, 

K-ome. 1 Apollo, Delius, or of older use 

All seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
" Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant not Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, 



her, 

Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and 

tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad; 



Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched 

man, 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter; tales! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting 
1 ox 



196 



LUCRETIUS. 



Moan ruund the spit, — nor knuw.s he \\hat 

he sees; 
l-yng of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly 

lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven : 
And here he glances on an eye new-born, 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain; 
And here he stays upon a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'n • 
And closed by those who mourn a friend in 

vain, 
l\'ot thankful that his troubles are no more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself. 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit the post 
Allotted by the Gods: but he that holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need he 

care 
Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, 
Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 
Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, 

that break 
Body toward death, and palsy, dealh-in-life, 
And wretched age — and worst disease of all. 
These prodigies of myriad nakednesses, 
And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable. 
Abominable, strangers at my hearth 
Not welcome, harpies miring every dish. 
The pliantom husks of something foully 

done. 
And fleeting thro' the boundless universe, 
And blasting the long quiet of my breast 
With animal heat and dire insanity? 

"How should the mind, except it loved 
them, clasp 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, Jike the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their rags 

and they, 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? 

" Can I not fling this horror off me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm. 
At random ravage? and how easily 



The 



lunlain there has cast his cloudy 

Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 

A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and 

within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men? 



" But who was he, that in the garden 
snared 
Picus and Faun us, rustic (Jods? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself — 
For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus 
Totters; a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops 

quiTering — 
The mountain quickens into Nymph and 

Faun ; 
And here an Oread — how the sun delights 
To glance and shift about her slippery sides. 
And rosy knees and supple roundedness. 
And budded bosom-peaks — who this way 

runs 
Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 
Follows; but him I proved impossible; 
Twy-natured is no nature: yet he draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 
That ever butted his rough brother-brute 
For lust or lusty blood or provender: 
I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she 
Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel, 
Fledged as it were witli Alercury's ankle- 
wing. 
Whirls her to me: but will she fling herself, 
Shameless upon me? Catch her, goat-foot: 

nay. 
Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilder- 
ness. 
And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I 

wish — 
What? — that the bush were leafless? or to 

wlielm 
All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods, 
I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 
From childly wont and ancient use I call — 
I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 
No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- 
spite. 
No madness of ambition, avarice, none: 
No larger least than under plane or pine 
With neighbors laid along the grass, to take 
Only such cups as left us friendly-warm. 
Affirming each his own philosophy — 
Nothing to mar the sober majesties 
Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 



DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



197 



But now it seems some unseen monster lays 
His vast and Hlthy hands upon my will, 
Wrenching it backward into his: and spoils 
My bliss in being; and it was not great; 
For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, 
Or Heliconian honey in living words. 
To make a truth less harsh, I often grew 
Tired of so much within our little life. 
Or of so little in our little life — 
Poor little life that toddles half an hour 
Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an 

end — 
And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade. 
Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, 
Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 
What beast has heart to do it? And what 

man. 
What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph 

thus? 
Not I; not he, who bears one name with her 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom 

of kings. 
When, brooking not the Tarquin in her 

veins, 
She made her blood in sight of Collatine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air. 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. 
And from it sprang the Commonwealth, 

which breaks 
As I am breaking now ! 

" And therefore now- 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all. 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that Imve made me 

man 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Through all her cycles— Into man once 

more. 

Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower: 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, ^and that hour perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and 

fanes. 
And even his bones long laid within the 

grave. 
The very sides of the grave itself shall 

pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void. 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that hour, 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 



And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and 

plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell. 
Shall stand: ay, surely: then it fails at last 
And perishes as I must; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Vearn'd after by the wisest of the wise, 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 
Without one pleasure and without one pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so they 

win- 
Thus — thus: the soul flies out and dies in 

the air." 

With that he drove the knife into his side: 
She heard him raging, heard him fall; ran 

in. 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell 

on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd: he answer'd, 

" Care not thou ! 
What matters? All is over: Fare thee well! " 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

(1852.) 

I. 

Bury the Great Duke, 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 
nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo rsund his bones for evermore. 



Lead out tihe pageant: sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long long procession go. 



198 



DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, oar chief state-oiacle is mute: 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man oi amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war. 
Foremost captain of his time. 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head whicli all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n'at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blew! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be seen 

no mere. 



All is over and done: 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river. 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds; 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 



He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard tluni lioom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guaiding realms and kings fri m than:e; 

With those deep voices our dead captain 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great i anie, 
W^iich he has worn so pure of lilame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attcniper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 



Who is he that cometh,like an honor'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier 

and with priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my 

rest ? 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 

man. 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea; 
His foes were thine; he kept us free; 
O give him welcome, that is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee; 
For this is England's greatest son. 
He that gain'd a hundred fights. 
Nor ever lost an English gun; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day. 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-1 nes. 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 
Back to France with countless blows, 



DEATH OF THE DUKE OF IVELLIA'GTON. 



199 



Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'tl up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And barking for the thront« of kings; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud sabbatii shook the spoiler 

down; 
A day of onsets of despair! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd themselves 

away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 
Thro' the long- tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world's- earUiquake, Waterloo! 
Mighty Seaman, tender antl true, 
And pure as he fr-)m taint of craven guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly 

set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 



We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and revorence antl reo-ret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it 

ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute con- 
trol; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the 

soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of Ireedom sown 
"Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Onr loyal passion for our temperate kings; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till jnd)lic wrong be crumbled into dust. 
And drill the raw world for the march of 

mind. 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be 

just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever; and whatever tempests lower 
For ever silent; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 

spoke; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eteinal God for power; 
Who let the turbid streams of runor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and 

low; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life; 
Who never spoke against a foe; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one re- 
buke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right: 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He ne;-er shall be shamed. 



!Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
.Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
jFollow'd by the brave of other lands, 
;He, on whom from both her open hands 
I Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. 



And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Ilim who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 
The path of duty was the way of glory: 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
"For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story. 
The path of duty was the way to gloiy: 
Fie, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 

won 
His path upward, and prevail'd. 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 

sun. 
Such was he: his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure, 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure : 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory: 
And let the land whose hearts he saved 

from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And when the long-illumined cities flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see: 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

Fur one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and 

brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 



Whom we see not we revere. 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane: 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tide of Music's golden sea 

Selling toward eternity, 

LJpIifted high in heart and hope are we, 

IJntil we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will; 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers. 

And other forms of life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul? 

On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's 

ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 

and tears; 
The black earth yawns: the mortal disap- 
pears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone, but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made 1 is own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.* 

My lords, we heard you speak; you told us 
all 
That England's honest censure went too 
far; 
That our free press should cease to brawl. 

Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. 
It was an ancient privilege, my lords. 
To fling whate'er we fell, not fearing, into 
words. 
* TheExamiuer, :S52, niid sigiud "Merlin." 



THE ' CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



We love not this French God, this child of .They knew the precious things they had to 



Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of 
the wise; 
But though we love kind Peace so well, 

We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. 
It might safe be our censures to withdraw; 
And yet, my lords, not well; there is a 
higher law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak free. 
Though all the storm of Europe on us 

break ; 
No little German state ai-e we. 

But the one voice in Europe; we must 

speak; 
That if to-night our greatness were struck 

dead. 
There might remain some record of the 

things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What! have we fought for freedom from our 

prime. 
At last to dodge and palter with a public 
crime? 

Shall we fear him? our own we never feared. 
From our first Charles by force we wrung 
our claims, 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 

And Hung the burden of the second James. 
I say we never fear'd! and as for these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove them 
on the seas. 

And you, my lords, you make the people 
muse, 
In doubt if you be of our Ba' ons' breed — 
Were those your, sires who fought at Lewes? 
Is this the manly strain of Runnyraede? 
O fall'n nol)i!ity, that, overawed, 
Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this 
monstrous fraud. 

IVe feel, at least, that silence here were sin. 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 
hosts — • 
If easy patrons of their kin 

Have left the last free race with naked 
coasts! 



guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant one 
hard word. 

Though niggard throats of Manchester may 

bawl. 
What England was, shall her true sons 

forget? 
We are not cotton-spinners all. 

But some love England, and her honor 

yet. 
Ana these in our ThermopyljE shall stand. 
And hold against the world the honor of 

the land. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!" he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismay'd? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm 'd at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 



202 



INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. 



Charging an aimy, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunf^ed in the battery-smoke, 
Right thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the saljre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six Hundred. 



When can their glory fade? 
U the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade! 

Noble six hundred! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF 
THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBI- 
TION. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, 
In this wide hall with earth's inventions 

stored, 
And praise th' invisible universal Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the nations 
meet. 



Where Science, Art, and Labor have out- 
pour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 

O silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee I 

The world-compelling plan was thine. 

And, lo! the long laborious miles 

Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles, 

Rich in model and design; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry. 

Secrets of the sidltn mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 

Fabric rough, or F'airy fine. 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder, out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine! 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star. 
Blown from over every main. 
And mixt, as life is mixl with pain. 

The works of peace with works of war. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, 
From growing commerce loose her latest 

chain, 
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker 

fly 
To happy havens under all the sky. 
And mix the seasons and the golden hours, 
Till each man finds his own in all men's 

good. 
And all men work in noble brotherhood, 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed tow- 
ers. 
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers. 
And gathering all the fruits of peace and 
crown'd with all her flowers. 




IN MEMORIAM 



IN MEMORIAM 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou; 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be: 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith; we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness: let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before,* 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 
We mock thee when we do not fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; 

What seem'd my worth since I began; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed. 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 



I trust he lives in thee, and there 
I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 



IN MEMORIAM, 
A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn." 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again. 
And bring the firstling to the flock; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

(205) 



2o6 



IN MEMORIAM. 



O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom. 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 

sweet and bitter in a breath. 
What whispers from thy lying lip? 

"The stars," she whispers, " blindly run; 

A web is wov'n across the sky; 

From out waste places comes a cry. 
And murmurs from the dying sun : 

" And all the phantom, Nature, stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind? 

IV. 

To Sleep I give my powers away; 
My will is bondsman to the dark; 

1 sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say: 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire. 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

" What is it makes me beat so low? " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears. 

That grief hath shaken into frost! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries. 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 



But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 



One writes, that "-Other friends remain,' 
That " Loss is common to the race " — 
And common is the commonplace, 
And vacant chaff" well meant for grain.' 

I 

That loss is common would not make ) 

My own less bitter, rather more: . I 

'Too common! Never morning wore 1 

To evening, but some heart did break. ■ 

O father, wheresoe'r thou be. 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, something thought: 

Expecting still his advent home; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest; 

And thinking " this will please him 
best," 
She takes a riband or a rose; 

For he will see them on to-night; 

And with the thought her color burns; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right; 




•' fair ship, Ihat frovi the I/alian shore 
Sath'si the placid ocean- plains. '''' 

In SIemuriam, Page 207, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



207 



And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end? 

And what to me remains of good? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 



Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'dno more, — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here; but far away 
The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 



A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well. 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home; 

He saddens, all the magi: light 

Dies off at once from bower and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight: 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet. 
The field, the cham er, and the street, 

For all is dark where thoa art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A Hower beat with rain and wind. 

Which once she foster'd up with care; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb. 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
Witii my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain; a favorable speed 
Rutfle thy minor'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now. 
My friend, the brother of my love; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I HEAR the noise about thy keel; 

I hear the bell struck in the night; 

I seethe cabin-window bright; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bnngest the sailor to his wife. 
And travell'd men from foreign lands; 
And letters unto trembling hands; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him: we have idle dreams: 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies: O to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 

That takes the sunshine and the rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 

Should gulf him fathonirdeep in brine; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine. 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn wilhout a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 



208 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold: 

Calm and still lighten yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded ferns and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main: 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden in the fall; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair: 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe. 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings; 

Tike her I go; I cannot stay; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 

And reach the glow of southern skies. 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge. 

And saying; " Comes he thus, my friend? 
Is this the end of all my care?" 
And circle moaning in the air: 

•' Is this the end? Is this the end? " 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the pro.w, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour away. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these; 



Which weep a loss for ever new, 

A void where heart on heart reposed; 
And, where warm hands have prest and 
closed. 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed. 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream; 

For now so strange do these things seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approaching sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' 
bales. 

And not the burden that they bring. 

XIV. 

Ik one should bring me this report, 

That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day. 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found tliee lying in the port; 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half-divine; 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home; 

And I should tell him all my pain. 
And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping day : 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world: 



IN MEMORIAM. 



209 



And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and porij on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 

And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming jjastion fringed with fire. 



What words are these have fall'n from me? 

Can calm despair and wild unrest 

Be tenants of a single breast, 
Or sorrow such a changeling be? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

But knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf. 
And staggers blindly ere she sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new. 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan? 



Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week: the days go by: 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

14 



So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; 
And balmy drojis in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious relics brought by thee; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

.KVIII. 

'T IS well; 't is something; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid. 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be; 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 

XlX. 
The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no more; 

They laid him by the pleasant shore, 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills; 

The salt sea-water passes by. 

And hushes half the babbling Wye, 
And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 

Is vocal in its wooded walls; 

My deeper anguish also falls. 
And I can speak a little then. 



IN MEMOKIAAI. 



The lesser griefs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind: 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze; 

For by thy hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: 

But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good! how kind! and he is gone." 

XXI. 

I SING to him that rests below, 

And, since the glasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he speak; 
'• This fellow w^ould make weakness weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be, 
He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth, " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people thronig 

The chairs and thrones of civil power? 

" A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing: 
Ye never knew the sacred dust: 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 



And one is glad; her note is gay, 

For now her little ones have ranged; 
And one is sad; her note is changed, 

BofL-'ause her brood is stol'n away. 



The path by which we twain tlid go, 

\v hich led by tracts that pleased us well, 
Thro' four sweet yea's arose and fell, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow; 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 
And, crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May: 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth a,«tumnal slope. 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 
And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold. 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip. 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut. 
Or breaking into song by fits. 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads; 

And crying, How changed from where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan: 

When each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Tlunight leapt out to wed with 
Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; 

And all we met was fair and good, 

And all was good that Tiine could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so great? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein? 



I KNOW that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love: 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave in twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVI. 

Still onward winds the dreary way; 
I with it; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker I^ove, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree. 

And towers fall'n as soon as built^— 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Hini is no befoie) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifterence to bt, 



Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Brtaks hither over Indian seas. 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

xxvii. 

I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods: 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted troth. 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ: 
The moon is hid; the night is still; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 

From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound: 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good will, good will and 
peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost* wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again; 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 

For they controU'd me when a boy; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, 

The merry merry bells of Yule. 

XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace. 
And chains regret to his decease. 

How dare vve keep our Christmas-eve; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font. 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house; 

Old sisters of a' day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time? They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth. 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboU'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused: the winds were in the beech: 
We heard them sweep the winter land; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year: impetuously we sang: 

W^e ceased: a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us: surely rest is meet: 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is 
sweet," 
And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range; 

Once more we sang: " They do not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 

Nor change to us, although they change; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 
Draw forth the cheerful day from night : 



O Father, touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was born. 



When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 
And home to Mary's house return'd. 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave? 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four 

days? " 
! There lives no record of reply, 
j Which telling what it is to die 
TIad surely added praise to praise. 
1 

From every house the neighbors met, 
1 The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
I A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd; 

He told it not; or somethirfg seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXX n. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 

prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure; 
What souls possess themselves so pure. 
Or is their blessedness like theirs? 

xxxni. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 
«Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, 
Whose faith hath centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou my sister when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy views; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



213 



Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 
A life tliat leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as tliin6, 
Her hands are quicker unto good: 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine! 

Sec thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

An;i ev'n for want of such a type, 

XXXIV. 

Mv own dim life should teach me this. 
That life shall live for evermore. 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is; 

This round of green, this orb of flame. 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to choose 
Of things all mortal, or to use 

A little patience ere I die; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent draws. 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Vet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow house, 
"The cheeks drop in; the body bows; 

Man dies: nor is there hope in dust "; 

Jvlight I not say, " Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, 1 strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive".'' 

Bat I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw dov.'n .Eonian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be; 



And Love would answer with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more 
more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 



and 



O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods. 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd the 
grape. 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 

XXX VI. 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all l)lessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read tliat binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urbania speaks with darken'd brow: 
" Thou pratest here where thou art least; 
This faith has many a purer priest. 

And many an abler voice had thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek: 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a litt'.e art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead. 
And all he said of things divine, 



214 



IN MEMORIAM. 



(And dear to me as sacred wine 
To dying lips is all he said,) 

♦' I murmur'd, as I came along, 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd; 
And loiter'd in the master's field. 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 



With weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always vmder alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



Old warder of these buried bones. 

And answering now my random stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living smoke, 

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless head, 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower; 

But Sorrow fixt upon the dead, 

And darkening the dark graves of men, 
What whisper'd from her lying lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips. 

And passes into gloom again. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spirits breathed away. 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes; 

And doubtful joys the father move. 
And tears are on the mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

Sh<i enters other realms of love; 



Her ofiice there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her boas^ 
Till even those that miss'd her most, 

Shall count new things as dear as old: 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 
Till growing winters lay me low; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire. 

As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes; here upon the ground. 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly! yet that this could be, — 
That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my frierwH, to thee: 

P'or tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear ihiplied in death; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me cold. 
That I shall be thy male no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to thee. 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



215 



I VEX my heart with fancies dim: 
He still outstript me in the race; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 
And he the much -beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will: 

And what delights can e«^al Ihose 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps. 
When one that loves but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows? 

XLIII. 
Ii" Sleep and Death be truly one, 

And every spirit's folded bloom 

Thro' all its intervital gloom 
In some long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last. 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower: 

So then were fiothing lost to man; 

So that still garden of the souls 

In many a figured leaf enrolls 
The total world since life began; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIV. 

How fares it with the happy dead? 

For here the man is more and more; 

But he forgets the day before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint. 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Ciives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hi«t; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



The baby new to earth and sky, 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Plas never thought that " this is I "; 

But as he grows he gathers much. 

And learns the use of " I," and " me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their due. 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLVI. 

We ranging down this lower track, 

The path we came by, thorn and flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it: there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
F)Ut clear from marge to marge shall 
bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd; 

The fruitful hours of still increase; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far: 
Look also. Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII. 

That each, who seems a separate whole. 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general .Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside; 

And I shall know him when we meet: 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 
Enjoying each the otker's good: 



2l6 



IN MEMORIAM. 



What vaster dream can hit the mood 
Of Love on earth? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." 

XLVIII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed. 

Then these were such as men might scorn 

Her care is not to part and prove; 

She takes, when harsher moods remit, 
What slender shade of doubt may flit, 

And makes it vassal unto love: 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



From art, from nature, from the schools. 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools: 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe. 
The .slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break. 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me! the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves 
prick 



And tingle; and the heart is sick, 
[And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 
And men the flies of latter spring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away. 

To point the term of human strife. 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

LI. 

Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden shame 

And I be lessen'd in his love? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue: 
Shall love be blamed for want of faith? 
There must be wisdom with great Death: 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



I CANNOT love thee as I ought. 

For love reflects the thing beloved; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," 
The Spirit of true love replied; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy side, 

Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears? 

What record? not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: 



IN MEMORIAM. 



217 



«' So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. 
Abide: thy wealth is gather'd in. 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from 
pearl." 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green: 

And dare we to this fancy give. 

That had the wiM oat not been sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round? 

Hold thou the good: define it well: 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push beyond her mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



O YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks witli aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 

.So runs my dream: but what am I? 
An infant crying in the night. 
An infant crying for tlie light: 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 



Derives it nul fiom what we have 
The likest God within the soul? 

Arc (jod and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careJess of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So careful of the type ?" but no. 
From scarped clift and quarried stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are gone: 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me: 
I bring to life, I bring to death: 
Thy spirit does but mean the breath: 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — • 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



2l8 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Peace; come away: the song of woe 

Is after all an earthly song: 

Peace; come away: we do him wrong 
To sing so wildly: let us go. 

Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; 
But half my life I leave behind: 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined; 

Biit I shall pass; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead; 
And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 

" Adieu, adieu," for evermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell: 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half-conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 



The 



Wherefore 



high Muse answer'd 
grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? 
Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler feave." 



O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
iVIy bosom-friend and half of life; 

As 1 confess it needs must be; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood. 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move. 
Nor will it lessen from to-day; 
But I '11 have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love; 



And set thee forth, for thou art mine. 
With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 



He past; a soul of nobler tone: 
My spirit loved and loves him yet. 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn; 
She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws by: 
At night she weeps, " How vain am II 

How should he love a thing so low?" 



If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise. 

The perfect flower of human time; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night, 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. 
Where thy first form was made a man; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. 



Tho' if an eye that 's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale. 

And fading legend of the past; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy. 

But lives to wed an equal mind; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



219 



Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep. 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star; 

Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden keys. 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whisper of the throne; 

And moving up from high to higher. 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope. 

The centre of a world's desire; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

Whan all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narroweV fate. 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his liands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands; 

" Does my old friend remember me? " 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 



With " Love's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
riiere flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: 

Since we deserved the name of friends 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost. 
Which makes a desert in the mind. 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand: 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky; 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there. 

LXVII. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest, 
By that broad water of the west. 

There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thy marble bright in dark appears. 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies: 
And closing eaves of wearied eyes 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

LXVIII. 

When in the down I sink my head, 

I Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my 

I breath; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Sleep, Death's twin-hiother, knows not 
Deatl), 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead: 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with dew. 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
What makes me sad I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXIX. 

I DRE am'd there would be Spring no more. 
That Nature's ancient power was lost: 
The streets were black with smoke and 
frost, 

They chatter'd trifles at the door: 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs: 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 



I met with scofts, I met with scorns 

From youth and babe and hoary hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns: 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child: 
I found an angel of the night; 
The voice was low, the look was bright 

He look'd upon my crown and smiled: 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 

i.xx. 

I CAXNOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; 



Ar;fl uuv.ds that stream from yawning 
doors, 

And shoals of pucker'd facts drive; 

Dark bulks that tumble half alive, ' 
And lazy lengths on boundless shorts; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-l<mg Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong. 
Drug down the blindfold sense oi wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of change, 
The days that grow to something strange. 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's weeded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The lireaker breaking on the beach. 



LXXII. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white. 

And lash with storm the streaming pane? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom. 
Which sicken'd every living bloom. 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick- tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower; 

Who mightst have heaved a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A checker-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime, 
When the dark hand struck down thro' 
time. 

And cancell'd nature's best: but thou, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Jit as thou mayst thy buiden'd brows 
. Thro' clouds that drench the morning 
star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 
i A.nd sow the sIvy with flying boughs, 

i A.nd up tliy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 

' And hide tiiy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXIII. 

So many worlds, su much to do, 
So little done, such things to he. 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 

The head hath miss'd an eartlily wreath; 
I curse not nature, no, nor death; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age? It rests with God. 

hollow wraith of dying fame, 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults. 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 

LXXIV. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race: 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and 'khow 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXV. 

1 LEAVE thy praises unexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief. 
And by the measure of my grief 
I leave thy greatness to be guess'd; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert? 



I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green. 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end; 

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

,Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; 
And what are they when thdse remain 
,The ruin'd shells of hollow towers? 

i LXXVII. 

;What hope is here for modern rhyme 
j To him, who turns a musing eye 
I On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 
iForeshorten'd in the tract of time? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
; May bind a book, may line a box. 

May serve to curl a maiden's locks; 
I Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

I A man upon a stall may find, 
1 And, passing, turn the page that tells 
i A grief, then changed to something else, 
Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Lxxvin. 

Again at Christmas did we weave 

•The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place. 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress? 
No single tear, no mark of pain: 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less? 

O last regret, regret can die! 

No — mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXIX. 

" More than my brothers are to me " — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart! 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind. 

As moulded- like in nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did print 
The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 
One lesson from one book we learn'd. 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine. 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXX. 

If any vague desire should rise, 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; 



Then fancy shapes, as fancy can. 

The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks; 

He bears the burden of the weeks; 
But turns his burden into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and save. 
Unused example from the grave 

Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXXI. 

Could I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall riow no further range; 
There cannot come a mellower change, 

For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store: 
What end is here to my complaint? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more.' 

But Death returns an answer sweet: 
" My sudden frost was sudden gain. 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have been from after-heat." 

LXXXII. 
I WAGE not any feud with Death 

P"or changes wrought on form and face; 

No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him, can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on. 

From state to state the spirit walks; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth: 

I know transplanted human worth 
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my heart; 
He put our lives so far apart 

W^e cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXIII. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long: 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



223 



"What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 



When I contemplate all a-lone 

The life that had been thine below. 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown; 

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss. 

On all the branches of thy blood; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; 
For now the day was drawing on. 
When thou shouldst link thy fife with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle" on my knee; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower. 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers 

To reverence and the silver hair; 



Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought. 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; 

What time mine own might also flee. 
As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee. 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand. 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content. 



This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept. 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate. 

Received and gave him welcome there; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 
And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 



224 



IN MEMORIAM. 



But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 
"Whose life, whose thoughts were little 

worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crowned soul! 

Yet none could better know than T, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-comprehensive tenderness. 

All-subtilizing intellect: 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 

That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock *hro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 
P"or other friends that once I met; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

1 woo your love: I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears: 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this: 



And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affectii'n of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in the grave: 

My old aftection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak: 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free? 
How is it? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain?" 

And lightly does the whisper fall; 

" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss, 
And that serene result of all." 

-So hold I commerce with the dead; 

Or so methinks the dead would say; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy- fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 



But Summer on the steaming floods, jMy heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 

And Springthat swells the narrow brooks,! Quite in the love of what is gone. 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, | But seeks to beat in time with one 

That gather in the waning woods, iThat warms another living breast. 



IN MEAIORIAM. 



225 



Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear. 
The primrose of the later year, 

And not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, aml)rosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life liiat feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and 
Death, 

111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 



I PAST beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown; 
I roved at random thro' the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high -built organs make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes; 

And caught once more the distant shout. 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 



Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart. 

And all the framework of the land; 

When one would aim an arrow fair. 
But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring. 

And one an inner, here and there; 

And last the master-bowman, he. 

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
-We lent him. W'ho, but hung to hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly- wise; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 
O tell me where the senses mix, 

O tell me where the passions meet. 

Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret juy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe— 
L cannot all comii.and the strings; 
The gloiy of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 



Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; • 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

|Of foliage, towering sycamore; 



Another name was on the door: 'How often, hither wandering down, 

I linger'd; all within was noise My Arthur found your shadows fair, 

Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys And shook to all the liberal air 

That crash'd the gla.ss and beat the floor; jThe dust and din and steam of town: 

'5 



226 



IN MEMORIAM. 



He brought an eye for all he saw; 

He niixt in all our simple sports; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawlint 
courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat: 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep, of scythe in morning dew. 
The gust that round the garden tlew. 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all -golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon: 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discuss'd the books to. love or hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the state. 

Or threaded some Socratic dream; 

But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For " ground in yonder social mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 

" And merge " he said " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
W'e talk'd: the stream beneath us ran. 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson -circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers. 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 



He tasted love with half his mind. 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could 
fling 

This bitter seed among mankind; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their life. 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine. 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'ei, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine; 

But if they came who past away. 
Behold their brides in other hand*;; 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Vea, tho' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and sliakc 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me: 

Whatever change the years have wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; 
Or underneath the liarren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of Marcli; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange; 

Come: not in watches of the night, 

P.ut where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 



IN MEiMORIAM. 



227 



XCII. 

If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain 
As but the canker of the brain; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days l)ehind, 
1 might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

4 ua, tno' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

jjiicy might not seem thy prophecies. 
But spiritual presentiments. 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 

XCIII. 

1 SMALL not see thee. D?re I say 
No spirit ever brake the bantl 
That stays him from the native land. 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
C), from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and touch, and enter: hear 
The wish too strong for words to name; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought would 
hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say. 

My spirit is at peace wi'h all. 



They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest: 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we linger'd on the lawn. 
For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth; and o'er the sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd: 
The brook alone far-off was heard. 

And on the board the fluttering urn: 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 

And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
I That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; 

While now we sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at 

ease, 
The white kine glimnier'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 

Withdrew themselves from me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart; I read 

Of that glad year which once had been, 
In those fall'n leaves which kept their 
green. 

The noble letters of the dead: 

And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent-speaking words, and strange 
W'as love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

( )n doubts that drive the coward back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 



228 



JN iMEMORIAM. 



So word by word, and line by line, 

Tlie dead man touch'd me from the past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

yEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time — the shocks of 
Chance — 

The blows of Death. At length my trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech. 
Or ev'n for intellect' to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became: 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knolls once more where, couch'd at 

ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field: 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And thictuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies t(j and fro, and saiel 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away; 
And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death. 

To broaden into bounelless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn. 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eye- 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not: one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle cjuestion versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true; 



Per])lext in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in hi.nest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them: thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night. 
Which makes the darkness and the light. 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the daikness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made tiieir gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVII. 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees; 
He finds on misty mouniain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crow n'd; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married lile — 

1 l(j()k'd >-in these anei tlu.ught of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune. 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away; 
The days she never can foigct 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people s.\y. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will nc; weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark an 1 deep 

He seems to slight her simple 1 eart. 

ile thrids the labyrinth of the iiind, 
He reads the seciet of the st; r, 
He seems so near and yet so iar, 

He looks so cold: she thinks h'ni kinel. 

She keeps the gift of years befcre, 
A wither'd violet is her blissi 
She knows not what his greatness is; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 



TX MEJMORIAM. 



129 



For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand: I love." 

XCVIII. 

You leave us: you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him; and go 

I'.y summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath. 
That City. *A11 her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

( )n Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me: 
I have not seen, I will not see 

\'ienna; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the Initial; friend from friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of )nen, and prey 
By each cold heartii, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings: 

And yet myself have heard him say. 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double titles of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves; nor more content. 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent. 

Imperial halls, or open plain; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rovjvct molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



RisEST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
So loud with voices of the biids. 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men; 



Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast 
By meadows breathing of the past. 

And woodlands holy to the dead; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, \vheresoever those may be. 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 



I CLIMB the hill: from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering reed. 
Or simple stile from mead to mead. 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill. 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill. 

And haunted by the wrangling daw; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock: 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thrcj' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock; 

But eachjias pleased a kindred eye. 
And each reflects a kindlier day; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway. 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This maple burn itself away; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of seed. 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air; 



230 



lA^ MEMORIAM. 



Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 

The brook shall babble down the plain. 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape grows 
Familiar to the stranger's child; 

As year by year tlie laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry. 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home. 
As down the garden-walks I move. 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel -hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate claim. 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant. fields and farms; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 



Methought I dwelt within a hall. 
And maidens with me: distant hills 
From l-.idden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
For ever: then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea: 

And when* they learnt that I must go 
They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop l,ay 

At anchor in the flood below; 

And on Ijy many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made the banks. 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed; 

And still as vaster grew the shore. 

And roll'd the floods in grander space, 
The maidens gather'd strength and grace 

And presence, lordlier than before; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart; 

As one would sing the death of war. 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be 

And one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck. 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went. 

And fell in silence on his neck: 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong: 
" We served thee here," they said, " so 
long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind?" 



IN MEMOKIAM. 



So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replyinjj, " Enter likewise ye 

And go with us"; they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud. 
We steer'd her toward a crimson clout 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



The time draws near the birth of Christ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays. 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

^ui all is new unhallow'd ground. 

cv. 
This .luiiy by the cottage-eave. 
To-night, ungather'd shall it stand: 

We live within the stranger's land, 
And strangely falls our Christmas eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime; 
For change of place, like growth of time 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast. 

By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, « 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor. 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 



Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mip.d. 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times: 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

Hut ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite: 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Rina: in the Christ that is to be. 



It is the day when he was born, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers a; the sharpen'd eaves, 



232 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, .as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling Ijrine 
That breaks the coast, l^ut fetch the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
To make a solid core of heat; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by; 

We keep the day. ^^'ith festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVIII. 

I WILL not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone. 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: 

What profit lies in barren faith. 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death? 

What find I in the highest place. 

But mine own phantom chanting hvmns? 
And on the depths of death there .swims 

The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies: 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart- AFFLUENCE in discursive talk 
From household fountains never 'dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye. 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man: 
Impassion'd logic, which outran 

The hearer in its fiery course; 

High nature amorous of the good. 
But touch 'd with no ascetic gloom; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of Ajjril blood; 



A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unasked, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years: 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarm'd of pride. 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the lirazen fool 

\\'as soften'd, and he knew not why; 

While I, thy dearest, sat aj^art. 

And felt thy triumph was as mine; 
And h)ved them more, that tliey were 
thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill, 
]]ut mine the love that will nest tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or di wn, 
Along the scale of lanks. ihro' all, 
'Co him who. grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown; 

The churl in spirit, howeVr he veil 
His want in iorms for iashion's sake 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale: 

For who can always act? but he, 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seern'd to be, 



JX MEMORIAM. 



233 



Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the llowcr 

And native growth of noble mind; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light. 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less. 
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies. 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou? some novel power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch. 
And hope could never hope too much. 

In waLching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought. 

And tracts of calm from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd. 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

CXIII. 

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me. 

But served the seasons that may rise; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

.Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in anotJber course. 



With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 



Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall 
rail 
Against her beauty? May she mix 
With men and prosper! Who shall fix 

Her pillars? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

.Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place; 

.She is the second, not the first.' 

A higher hand must make her mild. 
If all be not in vain; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child: 

For she is earthly of the mind. 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O, friend, who earnest to thy goal 

.So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow. 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now lings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown'd in yonder living Idue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding staeam or distant sea| 



234 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Where now the scamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, tiiat change tlieir sky 

To build and brood; that live their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi. 

Is it, then, regret for buried time 
That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime? 

Not all: the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret: the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone; 
And that dear voice, I once have known, 

Still speak to me of me and mine: 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

Vox days of happy commune dead; 
Less yearning lor the friendship fled. 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 

CXVII. 

O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while fr(jm his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss: 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue. 

For every grain of sand that runs. 
And every span of shade that steals. 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

CXVIII. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are brothers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 



In tracts of fluent heat began. 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms 

Till at the last arose the man; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to 
clime. 
The herald of a higher race. 
And of himself in higher place 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more; 
Or, crovvn'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom. 
And heated hot with burning fears. 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
Move upward, woiking out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart ^^•as used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; • 

I smell the meadow in the street; 

I hear a chirp of l;irds; I see 

BetA'ixt the black fronts long-withdiawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn. 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland 
And bright the friendship of thine eye; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I trust I have not wasted breath: 
I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain. 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 

Not only cunning casts in clay: 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs, 
. Hereafter, up from childhood shape 

His action like the greater ape, 
But I was born to other things. 



/A" MEMORIAM. 



235 



CXXI. 

Sad llesper o'er the buried sun 
And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done: 

The team is loosen'd from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night. 
By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird; 

Behind thee comes the greater light: 

The market boat is on the stream. 
And voices hail it from the brink; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past. 

Thy place is changed; thou art the same. 



O, WAST thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom. 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe. 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul. 

In all her motion one with law; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former fiash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow. 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose, 



There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes hast thou seen! 

There where the long street roars, hath 
been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and nothing stands; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands. 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 



That which we dare invoke to bless; 

Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; 

He, They, One, All; within, without; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun: 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice "Believe no more" 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in-wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear: 
But that blind clamor made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

But, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 



Whatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my harp would givCj 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue. 



236 



lA' MEMORIAM. 



Yet Hope had never lost her youth; 

She did but look through dimmer eyes; 

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies, 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song; 
And if the words were sweet and strong, 

He set his royal signet there; 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps. 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxvi. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet 1 keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space. 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvii. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Pie sunder'd in the night of fear; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm. 

Proclaiming social truth shall spresd, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown. 
And him, the lazar, in his rags: 
They tremble, the sustaining crags; 

The spires of ice are tojjpled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood; 
The iortiess crashes from on high, 
The brute taith lightens to the sky, 

And the great A\m\ sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
U'erlook'st the tumult from alar. 

And smJlesl, knowing all is well. 



cxxvni. 
The love that rose on stronger wings, 

Unpalsied when he met with Death, 

Is comrade of the lesser faith 
That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good, 

W^ild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new; 

If this were all your mission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old Ijareness pictin-esque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. 1 see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

cxxix. 
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal; 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher; 

Known and unknown; human, divine; 

Sweet human hand aVid lips and eye; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Love deeplier, darklier understood; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

c.xxx. 
TliY voice is on the rolling air; 

1 hear thee where the waters run; 
Thou standcst in the rising sun, 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then? I cannot guess; 
But tho' I seem in star and liower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



237 



My love involves the love before; 

My love is vaster passion now; 

The' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 



O LIVING will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock. 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure. 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O TRUE and tried, so well and long. 
Demand not thou a marriage lay; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he loved 
»■ A daughter of our house ; nor proved 
Since that dark day a day like this; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 

Some thrice three years: they went and 

came. 
Remade the blood and changed the 
frame. 
And yet is love not less, but more; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret, 

But like a statue solid-set, - 
And moulded in colossal cahn. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
Than in the summers that are flovyn, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before; 



Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is .she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere noon? 
Slie enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower: 

On me she bends her uiissiui eyes 

And then on thee; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud. 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows 

For ever, and as fair as good, 

And thou art worthy; full of power; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great. 
Consistent; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a tiower. 

But now set out: the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear: 

For I that danced her on my knee. 
That walch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm, 

At last must part with her to tliee; 

Now waiting to be made a wife. 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on. 
The " wilt thou." answer'd, and again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will" has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, whicli sliall be read. 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn. 
By village eyes as yet unljorn; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 



2 -.8 



IN MEMORIAM: 



O happy hour, and happier hours 
Avva.t them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day tne grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increased. 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 

And hearts arewarm'd, and faces bloom. 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

W'e wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses wait; 
They rise, but linger; it is late; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass. 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park. 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again tne feast, the speech, the glee, 
The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health, 

The crowning cup, the three-tinies-three. 



And last the dance; — till I retire: 

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud. 

And on the downs a rising fire: 

And vise, O moon, from yonder down 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall" 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book; 

m 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

p'or all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and sufler'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves. 
One God, one law, one element. 
And one far-off divine event. 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 




MAUD, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



MAUD, 
I. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the 
little wood, 

Its lips in the held above are dabbled with 
blood-red heath, 

The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent 
horror of blood. 

And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, an- 
swers " Death." 



11. 
For there in the ghastly pit long since a 

body was found. 
His who had given me life — O father! O 

God! was it well? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and 

dinted into the ground: 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him 

when he fell. 

III. 

Did he fling himself down? who knows? 
for.a vast speculation had fail'd, 

And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and 
ever wann'd with despair, 

And out he walk'd when the wind like a 
broken worldling wail'd. 

And the flying gold of the ruin'd wood- 
lands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my 

hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, 

liy a whisper'd fright. 
And my pulses closed their gates with a 

shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide 

the shuddering night. 
i6 



Villany somewhere! whose? One says, 

we are villains all. 
Not he: his honest fame should at least by 

me be maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad 

estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had 

left us flaccid and drain'd. 



Why do they prate of the l^lessings of Peace? 

we have made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that 

is not its own; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is 

it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war 

on his own hearthstone? 



But these are the days of advance, the 

works of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith in a 

tradesman's ware or his word? 
Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, 

and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bea'ing 

the sword. 

VIII. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the 

print 
Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither 

hope nor trust; 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my 

face as a flint. 
Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? 

we are ashes and dust. 

IX. 

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring 

the days gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled 

together, each sex, U.ke swine, 
(241) 



242 



MAUD. 



When only the ledger lives, and when only 
not all men lie; 

Peace in her vineyard — yes!- — hut a com- 
pany forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the 

rufiian's head, 
Till the filthy l)y-lane rings to the yell of 

the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold 

to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very 

means of life. 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the 
villanous centre-hits 

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the 
moonless nights. 

While another is cheating the sick of a few- 
last gasps, as he sits 

To pestle a poison'd poison behind his 
crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her babe 

for a burial fee. 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of 

children's bones. 
Is it peace or war? better, war! luud w 

by land and by sea. 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking 

a hundred thrones. 



For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder 

round by the hill. 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the 

three-decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue 

would leap from his counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it . ut with 

his cheating yardwand, home. — 



What! am I raging alone as my father 

raged in his mood? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash 

myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, 

nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a 

v/retched swindler's lie? 



Would there be sorrow for vie ? there was 

love in the passionate shriek. 
Love for the silent thing that had made 

false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and 

thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as 

he used to rave. 



I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am 

sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay? can a sweeter chance 

ever come to me here? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as 

the nerves of pain. 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place 

and the pit and the fear? 



Workmen up at the Mall ! — they are coming 

back from abroad; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the 

touch of a millionnaire: 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the 

singular beauty of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child; she 

promised then to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and 
tumbles and childish escapes, 

Maud the delight of the village, the ring- 
ing joy of the Hall, 

Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when 
my father dangled the grapes, 

Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon- 
faced darling of all, — 



What is she now? My dreams are bad. 

She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor; she 

will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best kjiows whether 

woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil 

may pipe to his own. 

IL 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant 

I may find it at last! 
It will never be broken by Maudj she has 

neither savor nor salt, 



MAUD. 



243 



IjuI a cold and clear-cut face, as I found 

when her carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: 

where is the fault? 
All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, 

not to be seen) 
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly 

null, 
Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, 

if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an 

hour's defect of the rose. 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little too 

ripe, too full. 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in 

a sensitive nose. 
From which I escaped heart-free, with the 

least little touch of spleen. 

HI. 

Colo and clear-cut face, why come you so 

cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful 

folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash 

dead on the cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on 

a gloom profound; 
WomauliKe, taking revenge too deep for a 

transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and 

ever as pale as l)e ore 
Growing and fading and growing upon me 

, without a sound, 
Duminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, 

half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I 

could bear it no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own 

dark garden ground. 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung 

shipwrecking roar, 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach 

dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glim- 
mer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low 

in his grave. 

IV. 
I. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby- 
budded lime 

In the little grove where I sit — ah, where- 
fore cannot I be 



Like things of the season gay, like the 

bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze 

of a softer clime. 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a 

crescent of sea. 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring 

of the land? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks 
how quiet and small! 

And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gos- 
sip, scandal, and spite; 

And Jack on his alehouse bench has as 
many lies as a Czar; 

And here on the landward side, by a red 
rock, glimmers the Hall; 

And up in the high Hall-garden I see her 
pass like a light; 

But sorrow seize me if ever that light be 
my leading star! 

III. 
When have I bow'd to her father, the 

wrinkled head of the race? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not 

to her brother 1 bow'd : 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on 

the moor; 
But the tire of a foolish pride flash'd over 

her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, 

in being so proud; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I 
am namelesi-- and poor. 

IV. 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready 

to slander and steal; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like 

a stoic, or like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have 

its way: 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no 

preacher can heal; 
The Alayfly is torn by the swallow, the 

sparrow is spear'd by the shrike, 
And the whole little wood where I sit is a 

world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man m his pride, and 

Beauty fair in her flower; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by 

an unseen hand at a game 



244 



MAUD. 



That pushes us off from the board, and 

others ever succeed? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other 

here for an hour; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and 

grin at a brother's shame: 
However we brave it out, \ve men are a 

little breed. 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and 

Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his 

river billowing ran. 
And he felt himself in his force to be 

Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant 

ripe for his birth. 
So many a million of ages have gone to the 

making of man: 
He now is first, but is he the last? is he 

not too base? 



The man of science himself is fonder of 

glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit 

bounded and poor; 
The passionate heart of the puet is whirl'd 

into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a 

temperate brain; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could 

learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old 

in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis 

hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how 

God will bring them about? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the 

world is wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek 

if a Hungary fail? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod 

or with knout? 
I have not made the world, and He that 

made it will guide. 



Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet 

woodland ways, 
Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless 

peace be my lot, 



Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in 

the hubbub of lies; 
Fr(nn the long-neck'd geese of the world 

that ai'e ever hissing dispiaise 
Because their natures are little, and, wliellicr 

he heed it or not. 
Where each man walks with his head in a 

cloud oi poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel 

madness of love. 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the 

measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all 

unmeet for a wife. 
Y(nn- mother is mute in her grave as her 

image in n.aible above; 
Your father is evei' in London, you wander 

about at your will; 
Vou have but fed on the roses, and lain in 

the lilies of life. 



A VOICE by the cedar tree. 

In the mtadow under thePialll 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A jiassionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a triunpet's call I 

Singing alone in the morning of Inc, 

In the happy morning of lile and oi May, 

Singing ol men that in battle airav, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and file 

To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

Ami \\ ild \ oice ptaling up to the sunny sky, 

And feet like sunny gems on an Liiglisii 

green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and h.er 

grace. 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that can 

not die. 
Till I well could weep for a time so soidid 

and mean, 
And myself so languid and base. 



Silence, beautiful voice! 
Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory 1 shall not find. 



MAUD. 



245 



Still! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 

choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 
Not her, wlu) is neither courtly nor kind. 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VI. 



Morning arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud. 

And the budded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd 
Caught and cufPd by the gale: 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street. 

Whom but Maud should I meet? 

And she touch'd my hand with a smile so 

sweet 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams. 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

Shj meant to weave me a snare 

Of .some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met. 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



V . 

Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
.Sli'.nild Nature keep me alive, 
If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five? 



Vet, if she were not a cheat. 
If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile were all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 



What if tho' her eyes seem'd full 
( )f a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy-despot, he, ■ 
That Jewell 'd mass of millinery. 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence. 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof. 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof. 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — • 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and 

ward. 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, myself from myself I guard. 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood^ 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and good? 
Living alone in an empty house. 
Here half hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan. 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse. 
And my own sad name in corners cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide. 
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt. 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 



246 



MAUD. 



O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love. 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke fro7ii her lip? 



I have play'd with her when a child; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I titay be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair? 



Men were drinking together. 
Drinking and talking of me; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty: so let it be." 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty: so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes. 



And suddenly, sweetly, stiangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante. 
Delicate-handed priest intone; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused and 

sigh'd 
" No surely, now it cannot be pride." 

IX. 

I WAS walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor. 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She waved to me with her land. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down liy the hill I saw thtm ride, 
In a UKjment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, who.se splendoi plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's luad? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine 
Master of half a ser\ile shire. 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line. 
Rich in the grace all women desire. 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower. 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine. 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine. 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



MAUD. 



247 



What, has he found my jewel out? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he: 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — ■ 
Bought? wluit is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race. 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as 

well: 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy things. 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, and 

rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, 
This huckster put down war! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear. 
For each is at war with mankintl. 



I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great wrong, 

To take a wanton dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand,! 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care \, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me. 
That the man 1 am may cease to be! 

XL 



LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet; 
Then let come what come may. 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure. 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XIL 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, .Maud, 
They were crying anU calling. 

II. 
Where was Maud? in our wood; 

And L who else, was with her. 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together.' 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hand. 
She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

\\ ho have won her favor! 

O Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 



MAUD. 



I know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 

VIII. 

Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling. 
Go back, my lord, across the moor. 

You are not her darling. 

XIII. 



Scorn 'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret? 
That a calamity hard to be borne? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext with his pride! 
1 past him, I was crossing his lands; 
He stood on the path a little aside; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite. 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and 

white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands; 
liut his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and jiis hands 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
1 long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship; 
IJut while 1 past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
(lorgijnized me from head to foof 
With a stony British stare. 



Why sits he hei-e in his father's chair? 
That old man never comes to his place: 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street. 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would 1 call him a cheat; 



For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet: 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
,\nd fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin: 
Some peculiar niystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother. 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race. 
All, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be! 
Has not his sister smiled on me? 



XIV. 



I. 



Mald has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower. 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom. 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books. 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate: 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean -foam in the moon, were laid 
On tlie hasp of the window, and my Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, 

to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down 

to my side, 
There were but a step to be made. 

III. 
The fancy flatter'd my mind. 
And again seem'd overbold; 
Now I thought that she cared for me. 
Now 1 thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 



MAUD. 



249 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood; 
(Jr tlie voice of the long sea-wave as 

svvell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn; 
Hut I look'd, and round, all round the house 

I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant 

but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of 

the sleep of death. 



XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells. 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

Tliat if / be dear to some one else. 
Then some one else may have much 
fear; 

But if / be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

S lall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink. 

If I be dear. 

If I be dear to some one else? 

XVI. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight; 
And so that he find what he went U) seek. 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of town 
He may stay for a year who has gone for a 

week: 
But this is the day when I must speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day! 
O beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way; 
Think 1 may hold dominion sweet. 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast. 
And dream of her beauty with tender dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the 

crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not: O, if she knew it. 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 



I know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wikls of Tinre, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime. 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord, 

Dare I bid her abide by her word? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me? 

I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart. 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XVII. 
Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields. 
Go not, happy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news 

Blush it thro' the West; 
Till the red nian dance 

By his red cedar tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 
I. 

I HAVE led her home, my love, my only 

friend. 
There is none like her, none. 



250 



MAUD. 



And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long wish'd-for end, 
Pull to the banks, close on the promised 
good. 

II. 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering 
talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, 

And shook my heart to think she comes 
once more; 

But even then I heard her close the door. 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is 
gone. 

III. 

There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have de- 
ceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy 
delicious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here in- 
creased, 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 

And looking to the South, and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my 
fate, 

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame; 

And over whom thy darkness must have 
spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 

Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 

Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom 
she came. 

IV. 

Here will I lie, while these long branches 

sway. 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play. 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand. 
Than nursed at ease and brought to under- 
stand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 



His nothingness into man. 



V. 

But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow sky. 
And do accept my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one simple 
girl. 



Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may 

give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to 

live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die; but live a life of truest breath. 

And teach true life to fight with mortal 
wrongs. 

O, why should Love, like men in drinking- 
songs. 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 
death? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss, 

Maud made my Maud by that long lover's 
kiss. 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 

" The dusky stranil of Death inwoven here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself 
more dear." 



Is that enchanted moan only the swell 

Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 

And hark the clock within, the silver knell 

Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal 
white. 

And died to live, long as my pulses play; 

But now by this my love has closed her 
sight 

And given false death her hand, and stol'n 
away 

To dreamful wastes where footless fancies 
dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace af- 
fright ! 

Dear heart, I feei with thee the drowsy 
spell. 



|My bride to be, my evermore delight, 



MAUD. 



251 



My own heart's heart and ownest own fare- 
well; 
It is but for a little space I go: 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the 

glow 
Of your soft splendors that you k)ok so 

bright? 
/have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing v.ith things below, 
But with my heart more blest than heart 

can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
That seems to draw — Ijat it shall not be so: 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 

I. 
Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

II. 
My dream? do I dream of bliss? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Uarken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and mine: 
For who was left to watch her but I? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 

But I trust that I did not talk, 

Not touch on her father's sin: 

I am sure I did but speak 

Of my mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin. 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Ve,xt with lawyers and harass'd with debt: 

For how often I caugiit her with eyes al 

wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sighing 
A world of trouble within! 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 



From him who had ceased to share her 

heart, 

And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household I'uiy sprinkled with blood 
By which our houses are torn: 
How strange was wliat she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark lather and mine 
Had bound us one to tlie other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was born; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. 
Mine, mine — our lathers have sworn. 

V. 
But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet; 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child. 
As it were a duty done to the tomb. 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon- 
ciled; 
And I was cursing them and my doom. 
And letting a dangerous thought run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled! 

VI. 
But then what a flint is he! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down, 
And at last, when each came home. 
He had darken'd into a frown. 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before: 
And this was what had redden'd her cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 

I see she cannot but love him. 

And says he is rough but kind. 

And wislijes me to approve him, 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse. 

That he left his wine and horses and play, 

Sat with her, read to her, night and day, 

And tended her like a nurse. 



252 



MAUD. 



Kind? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind? yet 1 know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Alaud? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind; why let it be so: 
For shall not Maud have her will? 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life enduies 

I feel 1 shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you ' 

And for your sweet sake to yours; 

O then, what then shall I say? — 

If ever I should forget. 

May God make me more wretched 

Than ever I have been yet! 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By tlie loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX. 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange that /tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly: 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
P'rom a little lazy lover 
Who but claims lier as his due? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Kay, the plainness of her dresses? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 



Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and cempleter; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire wUl give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near; 
And Maud ^vill wear her jewels, 
And tlie bird of prey will hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her tar. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acies, 

A gathering of ihe Toiy, 

A dinner and then a dance 

P"or the ma ds and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glance. 

At Maud in all her gloiy. 



For I am not invited. 
But, with the Sultan's pardon, 
I am all as well delighted. 
For I know her own rose-garden, 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over; 
And then, O then, come out to mc 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover. 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor, 

XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground. 

And bringing me down Ircm the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

P'orgetful of Maud and me. 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

liere at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sta; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(It I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me. 

Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night," 



MAUD. 



253 



XXII. 
I. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 
Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
(Jn a bed of daftodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The tlute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
AVhen will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 
For one that will never be thine? 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
rose, 
" For ever and ever mine." , 



And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From '.he lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than ^U: 



From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the \allevs of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

IX. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the llowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
near. 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late"; 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear "; 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy i)ed; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

XXIII. 



The fault was mine, the fault was mine" — 
Why am I silting here so stunn'd and still, 



254 



MAUD. 



Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the 

hill?— 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening land — 
What is it, that has been done? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising 

sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a 

word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to the 

gate. 
He came with the babe-faced lord; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 
And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 
He fiercely gave me the lie. 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the face. 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by: 
Struck for himself an evil stroke; 
Wrought for his house an irredeemable 

woe; 
For front to front in an hour we stood. 
And a million horrible bellowing echoes 

broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the 

wood. 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christ- 
less code. 
That nmst have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading eye? 
"The fault was mine," he vvhisper'd, " fly!" 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith nf one that I know; 
And there rang on a sudden a passionate 

cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood: 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I 
die, till I die. 



The feeble vassals of wine and anger and 
lust. 

The little hearts that know nut how to for- 
give: 

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 
Thee . ust, 

Strike dead the whole weak race of venom- 
ous worms, 

That sting each other here in the dust; 

We are not worthy to live. 

XXIV. 

I. 
Sek what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well. 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miiacle of design! 



What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn. 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on tlie shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill? 
Did he push, when lie was iincurl'd, 
A g(jlden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water- world? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a lap 
(Jf my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand! 



Is it gone? my pulses l)eat — 

What was it? a lying trick of the brain? 

Yet 1 thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet. 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentl 

rain, 
W'hen they should burst and drown with I'lagued with a flitting to and fro, 

deluging storms |A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 



Breton, not Briton; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 



MAUD. 



255 



That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below, 

But only moves with the moving eye, 

Flying along the land and the main — 

Why should it look like Maud? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I cannot but know 

Is a juggle born of the brain? 



Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost; 

An old song vexes my ear; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill. 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
Sp long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when fraught 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all life in the eye, — 

That it should, by being so overwrought. 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past by! 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

1 noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead? 

Whether I need have fled? 

Am I guilty of blood? 

However this may be, 

C • nfort her, comfort her, all things good 

W.iiie I am over the sea! 

Lei nii and my passionate love go by, 

J5ut speak to her all things holy and high. 

Whatever happen to me! 



Me and my harmful love go by; 
But come to her waking, find her asleep. 
Powers of the height. Towers of the deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

XXV. 

Courage, poor heart of stone! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone: 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why. 

Care not thou to reply: 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shall more than die. 

XXVI. 
I. 

O THAT 't were possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth. 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



A shadow flits before me. 

Not thou, but like to thee; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs. 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 



256 



MAUD. 



For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow. 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low replies. 



'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
C)n the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet. 
And the light and shadow tleet; 
She is walking in the meadow. 
And the woodland echo rings; 
In a moment we shall meet; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad tliat she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old. 

My bird with the shining head. 

My own dove with the tender eye? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate 

cry, 
There is some one dying or dead. 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd; 
For a turn Lilt shakes the city. 
And I wake, my dream is fled; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold. 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 



Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about! 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That 7L<ill show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide; 
The day comes, a flull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame. 

It crosses here, it crosses there. 



Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 
The shadow still the same; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street. 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " take me, sweet. 
To the regions of thy rest "? 

XIII. 

But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let nie be; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets. 

Hearts with no love for me: 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep. 

There to weep, and^weepi, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 

XXVII. 
I. 

Dead, long dead. 

Long dead! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 

Only a yard beneath the street. 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat. 

The hoofs of the horses beat. 

Heat into my scalp and my brain. 

With never an end to the stream of passing 

feet, 
Driving, hurrying., marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clat- 
ter. 
And here liencath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is 
not so; 



MAUD. 



257 



To have no peace in the grave, is that not 

sad? 
Rut lip and down and to and fro, 
Ever aljout me the dead men go; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 

They cannot even bury a man; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that 

are gone. 

Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read; 
It is that which makes us loud in the world 

of the dead; 
Tliere is none that does his work, not one; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed, 
I?ut the churchmen fain would kill their 

church, 
As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty 

head. 
And wheedle a world that loves him not, 
For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold; 

Not let any man think for the public good, 

Biit babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 

No, not to myself in the closet alone, 

But I heard it shouted at once from the top 

of the house; 
Everything came to be known: 
Who told hi7n we were there? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 

From the wilderness, full of wolves, where 

he used to lie; 

17 



He has gather'd the bones for his o'er-grown 
* whelp to crack; 

Crack them now for yourself, and howl, 
and die. 



Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the rat; 
I know not whether he came in the Han- 
over ship. 
But I know that he lies and listens mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes: 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babeSj 

poor souls! 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now: she is standing here at 

my head; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind; 
He may take her now; for she never speaks 

her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine; 
She comes from another stiller world of 

the dead. 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows. 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is 

good. 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes: 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, but 

blood; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral 

bride; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side? 



But what will the old man say? 
He laid a cruel snare in a pit 
To catch a friend of mine one stormy day; 
Yet now I could even weep to think of it; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse in 
the pit? 



258 



MAUD. 



Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far, 
"Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow— 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

XI. 

me, why have they not buried me deep 

enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head. 
And somebody, surely, some kind heart 

will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 

XXVIII. 
I. 

My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror 

and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for a lit 

tie thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of 

year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy 

downs. 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the 

Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious 

crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 
That like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a 

band of the blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in the 

coming wars — 
"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble 

have rest. 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pomted to 

Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the 

Lion's breast. 

II. 

And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a 

dear delight 
To have look'd. tho' but in a dream, u^jon 

eyes so fair, 



That had been in a weary world my one 

thing bright; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my 

despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in 

defence of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or 

cease, 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient 

height. 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the million- 

naire: 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and 

Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd in- 
crease, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful 

shore. 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's 

throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind 

no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of battle 

grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," 

said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be 

pure and true), 
"It is time, O passionate heart and morbid 

eye, 
That old hysterical mock-disease should 

die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my 

breath 
W^ith a loyal people shouting a battle cry, 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and tly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of 

death. ^ 



IV. 
Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher 

aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust 

of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs 

and shames, 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle 

unroll'd! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many 

shall weep 



THE DAISY 



259 



For those that are crush'd in the clash of 
jarring claims, 

Yet God's just wrath shall be wrcak'd on a 
giant liar; 

And many a darkness into the light shall 
leap, 

And shine in the sudden making of splen- 
did names, 

And noble thought be freer under the sun, 

And the heart of a people beat with one 
desire; 

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is 
over and done. 

And now by the side of the Black and the 
Baltic deep. 

And deathful-gniining mouths of the for- 
tress, tlames 

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart 
of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down 

like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, 

we are noble still, ■ 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to 

the better mind; 
It IS better to fight for the good, than to 

rail at the ill; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one 

with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God and the 

doom assign'd. 



THE LETTERS. 



Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet, 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turn'd and humni'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart. 

And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
We met, but only meant to part. 



Full cold my greeting was and dry; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest. 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key. 
Then raised her head with lips comprest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings. 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; 
As looks the father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said; 

I raged against the public liar; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love; your sex is known: 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone. 

The woman cannot be believed. 



" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst). 
And you, whom once I loved so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vap(jr-braided blue. 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars. 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swell^; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage-bells." 



THE DAISY. 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. 

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine 
In lands of palm and southern pine; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 



26o 



THE DAISY. 



What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road; 

How hke a gem, beneatli, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

lluw riclily down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew, 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove. 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mounta,in cornice 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most. 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A mouldcr'd citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush 'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 

A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Cascind, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 



But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting. 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the 
glory! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair. 
Was Monte Rosa hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at la'^t 
To Como; shower and storm and blast 
Llad blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way. 

Like ballad-burden music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; 

Or hardly slept, but watch 'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake. 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea; 



Will. 



261 



So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold: 

Vet here to-night in this dark city. 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crusli'd to hard and dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by: 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

Tlie gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 

Perchance, to dream you still beside zne, 
My fancy tied to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few. 
Who give the Fiend himself his due. 

Should eighty-thousand college-councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right. 

Vet one lay-hearth would give you wel- 
come 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town. 
J watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
- Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

Vou '11 have no scandal while you dine. 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
(iarrulous under a roof of pmc: 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; 



I Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

I And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin; 
{ Dispute the claims, arrange the chances: 
I Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win: 

I (3r whether war's avenging rod 
I Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God; 

How best to help the slender store. 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charily more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; 

But when the wreath of March ha? 
blossom 'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here. 

For those are few we hold as dear; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many. 
Many and many a happy year. 

January, 1854. 



WILL. 



O WELL for him whose will is strong! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: 
For him nor moves the loud world's random 

mock. 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound. 
Who seems a promontory of rock, 
That, corapass'd round with turbulent 

sound. 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 



But ill for him who, bettering not with 

time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended 

Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. 



262 



WILL. 



Or seeming-genial venial fault, 
Recurring and suggesting still! 
He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 
Toiling in immeasurable sand, 



And o'er a weary, sultry land. 

Far beneath a blazing vault, 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 




IDYLLS OF THE KING. 




IDYLLS OF THE KING 



' Flos Regum Arthurus." 

Joseph of Exeter. 



DEDICATION. 



These to His Memory — since he Iield them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idylls. 

A'nd indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it ; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her — •' 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle. 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war. 
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is* gone 
We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, 
How modest ; kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise. 
With what sublime repression of himself. 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life. 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
And blackens every blot: for where is he. 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his? 
Or how should England dreaming of his sons 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be. 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and Wasted 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace- — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed. 
Beyond all titles, and a household name. 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 



(^65) 



266 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made 
One light together, but has past and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again! 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other child; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 



Groan'd for the Roman legions here again, 
And Csesar's eagle: then his brother king, 
Urien, assail'd him: last a heathen horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth 

with blood, 
And on the spike that split the mother's 

heart 
Spitting the child,brake on him, till, amazed. 
He knew not whither he should turn for aid. 



For many a petty king ere Arthur came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land; 
And still from time to time the heathen host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried ^\ hat was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wilderness. 
Wherein the beast was ever more and more. 
But man was less and less, till Arthur came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought and died. 
And after him King Uther fought and died, 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space. 
And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under him. 

Their king and head, and made a realm,! And Arthur yet had done no deed of 
and reign'd. jin^is. 

But heard the call, and came : and Guinevere 



But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crown'd, 
Tho' not without an iiproar made by those 
Who cried, "He is not Uther's son" — the 

King 
Sent to him, saying, "Arise, and help us, 

thou ! 
For here between the man and beast we 

die." 



And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, 
Thick with wet woods, and many a beast 

therein. 
And none or few to scare or chase the beast; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and 

bear 
Came night and da)', and rooted in the fields. 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The cliildren and devour, but now and then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce 

teat 
To human sucklings; and the children, 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat would 

growl. 
And mock their foster-mother on four feet. 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf-like 

men. 
Worse than the wolves 

jjran 



Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; 
But since he neither wore on helm or shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood. 
But rode a simple knight among his knights. 
And many of these in richer arms than he. 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he past. 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he drave 
The heathen, after slew the beast, and fell'd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and the 

knight, 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there. 

And King Leodo-lA doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts 

lof those great lords and barons of his realm 




KING ARTHUR. 

FROM A PHOTOGRAPHIC STUDY liV JULIA M, CAMERON. 



THE COJIIIXG OF ARTHUR. 



267 



Flash'd forth and into war: formost of these, 
Colleaguing with a score of petty kings 
Made liead against him, crying, " Who is he 
That he should rule us? who hath proven him 
King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor 

voice, 
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew 
This is the son of Gorlois, not the King; 
This is the son of Anton, not the King." 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life. 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere ; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father said 
That there between the man and beast they 

die. 

Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with me ? 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over me, 
C) earth that soundest hollow under me- 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I be 

join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 
I seem as nothing in the mighty world. 
And cannot will my will, nor work my work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd with 

her. 
Then might we live together as one life, 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power on this dark land to lighten it. 
And power on this dead world to make it 

live." 

Thereafter— as he speaks who tells the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a held-of-battle bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world 
Was all so clear about him, that he saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest hill. 
And even in high day the morning star. 
,So when the king had set his banner broad, 
At once from either side, with trumpet-blast. 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, 
The long-lanced battle let their horses run. 
And now the barons and the kings prevail'd, 
And now the King, as here and there that 

war 
Went swaying ; but the Powers who walk 

the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders over him. 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, 
And mightier of his hands with every blow, 
And leading all his knighthood, threw the 

kings 



Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, 
Ihe King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself alone 
And all the world asleep, they swerved 

and brake 
Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the brands 
That hack'd among the flyers, " Ho! they 

yield!" 
So like a painted battle the war stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead. 
And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved 
And honor'^ most. " Thou dost not doubt 

me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for me 

to.d^." 
" Sir and my liege," he cried, "the fire of God 
Descends upon thee in the battle field: 
I know thee for my King!" Whereat the 

two. 
For each had warded either in the fight, 
Sware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 
And Arthur said, " Man's word is God in 

man : 
Let chance what will, I trust thee to the 

death." 

Then quickly from the foughten field he 

sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, 
Saying, " If I in aught have served thee 

well. 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in 
heart 
Debating — " How should I that am a king. 
However much he holp me at my need. 
Give my one daughter saving to a king, 
And a king's son ?" — lifted his voice, and 

call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel : " Knowest thou aught of Ar- 
thur's birth?" 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain, and 
said, 
" Sir King, there be but two old men that 
know: 



268 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And each is twice as old as I; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 
King Uther thro' his magic art; and one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, 
Who taught him magic; but the scholar ran 
Before the master, and so far, that Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and 

wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, whej-e after-years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.', 

To whom the King Leodogran replied, 
" O fiiend, had I been holpen half as well 
By this King Arthur as by thee to-day, 
Then beast and man had had their share of 

me: 
But summon here before us yet once more 
Ultius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, the 

King said, 
" I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser 

fowl, 
And reason in the chase: but wherefore 

now 
Do these your lords stir up the heat of war. 
Some calling Arthur born of Gorlolfs, 
Others of Anton? Tell me, ye yourselves. 
Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son?" 

And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, "Ay." 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word was he. 
Whenever slander breathed against the 

King— 

"Sir, there be many rumors on this head: 
For there be those who hate him in their 

hearts. 
Call him base-born, and, since his ways are 

sweet 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less than 

man: 
And there be those who deem him more 

than man. 
And dream he dropt from heaven: but my 

belief I 

In all this matter — so ye care to learn — ' 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time 
! lie prince and warrior Gorluis, he that held 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea. 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: 
And daughters had she borne him, — one 

whereof, I 



Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent, 
Ilath ever like a loyal sifter cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorloi's, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his love, 
That Gorlois and King Uther went to war: 
And overthrown was Gorlo'is and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged 
Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd in. 
And there was none to call to but himself. 
So, compass'd by the power of the King, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her tears. 
And with a shameful swiftness: afterward. 
Not many moons, King Uther died himself, 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the new 

year. 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born 
Delivered at a secret postern -gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come; because the 

lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, 
Wild beasts, and surely would have torn 

the child 
Piecemeal among them, had they known; 

for each 
But sought to rule for his own self and hand. 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took the 

child. 
And gave him to .Sir Anton, an old knight 
And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd him 

with her own; 
And no man knew. And ever since the lordt 
Have foughten like wild beasts among them- 
selves. 
So that the realm has gone to wrack ; but now, 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour had 

come) 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the 

hall, 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, youi 

king,' 
A hundred voices cried, ' Away with him I 
No king of ours ! a son of Clorlois he, 
Or else the child of Anton, and no king. 
Or else base-born.' Yet Merlin thro' his crafi. 



THE COMING OF A R THUS. 



269 



And while the people clamor'd fur a king 
Had Arthur crt)\vn'd ; but after, the grca 
lords 1 

I5anded, and so break out in open war." 

Then while the King debated with himseli' 
If Arthur were the child of shaniefulness, 
'Jr born the son of Gorlois, alter death, 
'Jr Uther's son, and born before his time, 
( )r whether there were truth in anything 
Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, 
With Gavvain and young Modred, her two 

sons, 

Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 

" A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. 
Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his 

men 
Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye this 

king- 
So many those that hate him, and so strong, 
So few his knights, however brave they be — 
Hath body enow to hold his foemen down ?" 

"O King," she cried, " and I will tell 
thee : few. 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; 
For I was near him when the savage yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat 
Crown'd on the dais, and his warriors cried, 
' Be thou the king, and we will work thy 

• will 
Who love thee." Then the King in low 

deep tones. 
And simple words of great authority. 
Bound them by so strait vows to his own 

self. 
That when they rose, knighted from kneel- 
ing, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a "ghost, 
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who 

wakes 
Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

" But when he spake and cheer'd his 
•Table Round 
With large divine and comfortable words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I beheld 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order tiash 
A momentary likeness of the King : 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the cross 
And those around it and the Crucilied, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, 
smote 



P'lame-color, vert and azure, in three rays 
(_)ne falling upon each of three fair queens 
Who stood in silence near his throne, the 

friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. 

"And there I saw mage Merlin, whose 
vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

" And near him stood the Lady of the 

Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his ov.-n — 
Clothed "in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
She gave the King his huge cross-hilted 

sword. 
Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist 
Of incense curled about her, and her face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms 
May shake the world, and when the surface 

rolls. 
Hath power to walk the waters like our 

Lord. 

" There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so 

bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side. 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
'Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall 

see. 
And written in the speech ye speak your- 
self, 
' Cast me away!' And sad was Arthur's 

face 
Taking it, but old ^Merlin counsell'd him, 
' Take thou and strike! the time to cast 

away 
Is yet far-ofif.' .So this great brand the 

King 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen 

down." 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 



a7o 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



«' The swallow and the swift are near akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble prince, 
Being his own dear sister;" and she said, 
" Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am I;" 
" And therefore Arthur's sister,," ask'd the 

King. 
She answer'd, " These be secret things," 

and sign'd 
To those two sons to pass and let them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into song 
Sprang out, and followed by his flying hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: 
15ut Modred laid his ear beside the doors. 
And there half heard; the same that after- 
ward 
Struck for the throne, and striking found 
his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer, " What 

know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, 
Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 
Moreover, always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
' O that ye had some brother, pretty one. 
To guard thee on the rough ways of the 

world.' " 

" Ay," said the King, " and hear ye such a 

cry? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee 

first?" 

"O King'" she cried, " and I will tell 

thee true: 
He found me first when yet a little maid: 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 
Whereof I was not guilty: and out I ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of heath. 
And hated this fair world and all therein. 
And wept and wish'd that I were dead: 
^ and he — 

I know not w hether of himself he came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can 

walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my side, 
And spake sweet words, and comforted my 

heart. 
And dried my tears, being a child with me. 
And many a time he came, and evermore 
As I grew greater grew with mej and sad 



At timesheseem'd, and sad with him was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved him 

not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved him well. 
And now of late I see him less and less. 
But those first days had golden hours for 

me. 
For then I surely thought he would be king. 

" But let me tell thee now another tale: 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, 
Died but of late,' and sent his cry to me, 
To hear him speak before he left his life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage : 
And when I enter'd told me that himself 
And Merlin ever served about the King, 
Uther, before he died; and on the night 
When Uther in Tintagil past away 
Moaning and wailing fur an heir, the two 
Left the still King, and passing forth to 

breathe. 
Then from the castle gateway by the chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a night 
In which the bounds of heaven and earth 

were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to 

stern 
Bright with a shining people on the decks, 
And gone as soon as seen. And then the 

two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the great 

sea fall. 
Wave after wave, each mightier than the 

last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the 

deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: 
And down the wave and in the flame was 

borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, 

' The King! 
Here is an heir for Uther!' And the fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the 

strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word, 
And all at once all round him rose in fire, 
So that the child and he were clothed in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow'd calm. 
Free sky and stars: ' And this same child,' 

he said, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



271 



< Is he who reigns; nor could I part in 

peace 
Till this were told.' And saying this the 

seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of 

death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side; but when I met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were 

truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked child 
Descending in the glory of the seas- 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd 

me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and said: 

" ' Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the 
sky! 
A young man will be wiser by and by: 
An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 
Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the 
lea! 
And truth is this to me, and that to thee; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 
Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom 
bows; 
Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who 

knows? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 
goes.' 

" So Merlin riddling anger'd me; but 

thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only child, 
Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing 
Hereafter; and dark sayings from of. old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of men. 
And echo'd by old folk beside their fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is done. 
Speak of theJKing; and Merlin in our time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will not 

die. 
But pass, again to come; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot. 
Till these and all men hail him for their 

king." 

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, 
But musing, " Shall I answer yea or nay?" 
Doubted and drowsed, nodded and slept, 

and saw, 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew. 
Field after field, up to a heiglit, the peak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king. 
Now looming, and now lost ; and on the slope 



The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was 

driven, 
Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof 

and rick. 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, 
Stream 'd to the peak, and mingled with the 

haze 
And made it thicker; while the phantom 

king 
Sent out at times a voice; and here or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the voice, 

the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king of 

ours. 
No son of Uther, and no king of ours; " 
Till with a wink his dream was changed, 

the haze 
Descended, and the solid earth became 
As nothing, but the king stood out in 

heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom 

he loved 
And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride 

forth 
And bring the Queen; — and watch'd him 

from the gates: 
And Lancelot passed away among the flow- 
ers 
(For then was latter April) and return'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubricthe high saint. 
Chief of the church in Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King 
That morn was married, while in stainless 

white. 

The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, his 

knights 

Stood round him, and rejoicing in his Joy. 
Far shone the fields of May thro' open door. 
The sacred altar blossom 'd white with May, 
The Sun of May descended on their King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in their 

Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along the 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless 

love: 
And Arthur said, " Behold, thy doom is 

mine, 



272 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Let chance what will, I love thee to the 

death!" 
To whom the Queen replied with drooping 

eyes, 
" King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death! " 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and 

spake, 
*' Reign ye, and live and love, and make 

the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee. 
And all this order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!" 

So Dubric said: but when they left the 

shrine 
Great lords from Rome before the portal 

stood. 
In scornful stillness gazing as they past; 
Then while they paced a city all on hre 
With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets 

blew. 
And Arthur's knighthood sang before the 

King:— 

"Blow trumpet, for the world is white 

with May: 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd 

away ! 
Blow thro' the living world — ♦ Let the King 

reign." 

" Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur's 
* realm? 

Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon 

helm. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the 
King reign. 

"Strike for the King and live! his 

knights have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret word. 
Fall bat'.leaxe, and flash brand! Let the 

King reign. 



Strike for the King and die ! and if 
thou diest. 

The King is King, and ever wills the high- 
est. 

Clang liattleaxe, and clash brand! Let the 
King reign. 

" Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the 
King reign. 

"The King will follow Christ, ana we 

the King 
In whom high God hath breathed a secret 

thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the 

King reign." 

So sang the knighthoo^, moving to their 

hall. 
There at the banquet those great lords from 

Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the world. 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of 

yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these have 

sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me their 

King; 
The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new; 
And we that fight for our fair father Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old 
To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, 
No tribute will we pay;" so those great 

lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with 

Rome. 



And Arthur and his knighthood for a 
space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength 
"Blow trumpet! he will lift us from thel the King 

dust, I Drew in the petty piincedoms under him. 

Blow, trumpet! live the strength and die the Fought, and in twelve great battles over- 



lust! 

Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the 
King reign. 



The heathen hordes, and made a realm, 
and reign'd. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. 
" How he went down," said Gareth, " as a 

false knight 
Or evil king before my lance if lance 
Were mine to use — O senseless cataract, 
Bearing ^.H down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with cold 

snows, 
And mine is living blood: thou dost His 
will, I 

The maker's, and not knowest, and I that 

know, 
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's 

hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and whis- 
tled to— 
Since the good mother holds me still a 

child- 
Good mother is bad mother unto me! 
A worse were better; yet no worse would L 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force 
Tc^ weary her ears with one continuous 

prayer. 
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 
In ever-highering eagle -circles up 
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash them 

dead, 
A knight c>f Arthur, working out his will, 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when 

he came. 
With Modred hither in the summertime, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, 
' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' said 

so — he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute. 
For he is alway sullen: what care I? " 



" Thou art but a wild-goose to question it." 
"Then, mother, an ye love the child," he 

said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than wild, 
Hear the child's story." " Yea, my well- 
beloved. 
An 't were but of the goose and golden eggs." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 

eyes, 
"Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of 

mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can lay; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Ahnost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. 
Andthere.was ever haunting round the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, and 

thought 
' An I could climb and lay my hand upon it. 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings.' 
But ever when he reached a hand to climb, 
One, that had loved him from his childhood , 

caught 
And stay'd him, ' Climb not lest thou break 

thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love,' and so the boy. 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his 

neck. 
But brake his very heart in pining for it. 
And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
"True love, sweet son, had risk'd himself 

and climb'd. 
And handed down the golden treasure to 

him." 



And Gareth answer'd her with kindling 
eyes, 
" Gold? said I gold? — ay then, why he, or 

she, 

jOr whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
And Gareth went, and hovering round her Had ventured — had the tlwng I spake of 
chair [ been 

Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still thelMere gold — but this was all of that true 

child, I steel. 

Sweet mother, do ye love the child?" She! Whereof they .forged the brand Excalil)ur, 
laugli'd, * And lightnings plav'd about it in the storm, 

i8 ... 



2 74 



IDYLLS OF THE laNG. 



And all the little fowl were flurried at it, 
And there were cries and clashings in the 

nest, 
That sent him from his senses: let me go." 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and said, 
"Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd out! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 
He fought against him in the Barons' war, 
And Arthur gave him back his territory, 
His age hath slowly droopc, and now lies 

there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, 
No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, 

nor knows. 
And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall. 
Albeit neither loved with that full love 
I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 
Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the 

bird, 
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the 

wars. 
Who never knevvest finger-ache, nor pang 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney- 
falls. 
Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the 

deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; 
So make thy manhood mightier day by day; 
Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace 
Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone 

year. 
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor anything. 
Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy than 

man." 

Then Gareth, "An ye hold me yet for 
child, 

Hear yet once more the story of the child. 

For, mother, there was once a King, like 
ours; 

The prince his heir, when tall and mar- 
riageable, 

Ask'd for a bride; and thereupon the Kin 

Set two before him. One was lair, strong, 
arm'd — 

But to be won by force — and many men 

Desired her; one, good lack, no man de- 
sired. 

And these were the conditions of the King: 



That save he won the first by force, he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile. 
That evermore she loiig'd to hide herself. 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye — 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of 

her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame; and one, 

O Mother, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you — 

Shame ! 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. 
Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the 

King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow 

the King — 
Else, wherefore born? " 

To whom the mother said, 
" Sweet son, for there be many who deem 

him not. 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

King— 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, 
When I was frequent with him in my youth. 
And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted 

him 
No more than he, himself; but lelt him 

mine, 
Of closest kin to me: yet — wilt thou leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine 

all. 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

King? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round his 

birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son." 

And Gareth answer'd cpaickly, " Not an 

hour. 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' fire. 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin'd 

Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, and 

crush 'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people free? 
Who should be King save him who makes 

us free?" 

So when the Queen, who long had sought 

in vain 
To break him from the intent to which he 

grew. 
Found her son's will unwaveringly one, 



CARETH AND LYNETTE. 



275 



She answer'd craftily, " Will ye walk thro' 

fire? 
Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed the 

smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight. 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me. 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
" A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick! the proof to prove me to the 
quick!" 

But slowly spake the mother, looking at 

him, 
•' Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's 

hall. 
And hire thyself to serve for meats and 

drinks 
Among the scullions and the kitcherr-knaves. 
And those that hand the dish across the bar. 
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any one. 
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a 

day." 

For so the Queen believed that when her 
son 
Beheld his only way to glory lead 
■Low down thro' villain kitchen-vassalage. 
Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud 
To pass thereby; so should he rest with her, 
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 
"The thrall in person may be free in soul. 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself 
To serve with scullions and with kitchen- 
knaves; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's 

eye. 
Full of the wistful fear that he would go. 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he 

turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, 
Whenwaken'd by the wind which with full 

voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to 

dawn, 
iiC rose, and out of slumber calling two 



That still had tended on him from his birth, 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The birds 

made 
Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd into 

green. 
And the live green had kindled into flowers. 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet \vere planted on the 
plain 
That broaden'd toward the base ofCamelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, 
That rose between the forest and theficli!. 
At times the summit of the high city flash'd; 
At times the spires and turrets half way dew n~ 
Prick'd thro' the mist; at times the gicat 

gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below: 
Anon, the whole fair city had disappcar'd. 

Then those who went with Gareth were 

amazed. 
One crying, "Let us go no farther, loid. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy Kings." The second echo'd him, 
" Lord, we have heard from our wise n.cn 

at home 
To Northward, that this King is not the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 
Who diavethe heathen hence by sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the first 

again, 
" Lord, there is no such city anywhere. 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had glamour 

enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, youth and 

hopes. 
To plunge old Merlin in the Aiabian sea; 
So piish'dthcm allunwilling toward the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under heaven ; 
For barefoot on the keystone, which was 

lined 
And rippled like an ever-fieeting wave. 
The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing away; 
But like the cross her great and goodly arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and upheld: 
And drops of water lell ircm either hanu; 



2/6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And down from one a sword was hung, 

from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and storm; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; 
And in the space to left of her, and right. 
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately, that men 
Were giddy gazing there; and over all 
High on the top were those three Queens, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they 

call'd 
To Gareth, "Lord, the gateway is alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, to whom 
From out thereunder came an ancient man, 
Long-bearded, saying, "Who be ye, my 
sons?" 

Then Gareth, "We be tillers of the soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to see 
The glories of our King: but these, my men, 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist,) 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come 
From fairyland; and whether this be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 
Or all a vision: and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these 
the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer playing 

on him 
And saying, " Son, I have seen the good ship 

sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in the 

heavens. 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: 
And here is truth; but an it please thee not, 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a Fairy King 
And Fairy Queens have built the city, son; 
They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in haixl 
And built it to the music of their harps. 
And as thou sayest it is enchanted, son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 



Saving the King; tho' some there be that 

hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real: 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass 
Beneath the archway, then wilt thou be- 
come 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet the 

which 
No man can keep; but, so thou dread to 

swear, 
I'ass not beneath this gateway, but abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field. 
For, an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city is 

built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built forever." 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, " Old Master, reverence thine 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, and seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath 

been 
To thee fair-spoken?" 

But the Seer replied, 
" Know ye not then the Riddling of the 

Bards? 
' Confusion, and illusion, and relation. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion'? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me. 
And all that see thee, for thou art not who 
Thou seemest, but fknow thee who thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending here 
Turn'd to the right, and past along the 

plain; 
Whom Gareth looking after said, " My 

men. 
Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 
Here en the threshold of our enterprise. 
Let love be blamed for it, not she, not I: 
Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd with 

his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces. 
And stately, rich in emblem and the work 
O'i ancient kings who did their days in 

stone; 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's 

court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and every- 
where 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt witli lessening 

peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire to 

heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms 
Clash'd ; and the sound was good to Gareth's 

ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of 

love; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld 
Far overheads in that long-vaulted hall 
The splendor of the presence of the King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and look'd 

no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering in his 

ears, 

And thought, " For this half-shadow of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when I 

speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged about the 

throne. 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with 

pure 
Affection, and the light of victory, 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the King, 
" A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft 
From my dead lord a field with violence: 
For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd gold. 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes. 
We yielded not; and then he reft us of it 
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field." 

Said Arthur, "Whether would ye? gold 

or field? " 
To whom the woman weeping, "Nay, my 

lord. 
The field was pleasant in my husband's 

eye." 



And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant field 
again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did 
Would shape himself a right! " 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to him, 
"A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy. King, 

am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear 

lord, 
A knight of Uther, in the Barons' war. 
When Lot and many another rose and fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. 
1 held with these, and loathe to ask thee 

aught. 
Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved him 

dead; 
And standeth seized of that inheritance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left 

the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle for 

me. 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my 

son." 

Then strode a good knight forward, cry- 
ing to him, 

" A boon. Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. 

Give me to right her wrong, and slay the 
man." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and 

cried, 
"A boon. Sir King! ev'n that thou crarit 

her none. 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in full 

hail- 
None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and 

gag." 

But Arthur, " W^e sit. King, to help the 

wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves her- 

lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and 

hates I 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to the 

flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee 

dead, 



27S 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And Ullier slit thy tongue: but get thee 

licnce — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings of old 
Return upon me! Thou that art her kin, 
Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not, 
But bring him here, that I may judge the 

right, 
According to the justice of the King: 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King 
Who lived and died for men, the man shall 

die." 

Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land. 
The Cornish king. In either hand he bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold. 
Which down he laid before the throne, and 

knelt. 
Delivering, that his Lord, the vassal king. 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot; 
For having heard that Arthur of his grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater state. 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all the 

more; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth oi 

gold, 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to 

rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The goodly 

knight! 
What! shall the shield of Mark stand among 

these? ■' 

' For, midway down the side of that long hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the front 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and some 

blank, 
There ran a treble range of stony shields. 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 

And under every shield a knight was named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall; 
When some good knight had done one no- 
ble deed, 
His arms were carven only; but if twain 
His arms were blazon'd also; but if none 
The shield was blank and bare without a 

sign 



Saving the name beneath; and Garelh saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright. 
And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur 

cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 

" More like are we to reave him of his 

crown 
Than make him knight because men call 

him king. 
The kings we found, ye know we stay'd 

their hands 
From war among themselves, but left them 

kings; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them 

we enroll'd 
Among us, and they sit within our hall. 
But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name of 

king. 
As Mark would sully the low state of churl : 
And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold. 
Return, and meet, and hold him from our 

eyes. 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead. 
Silenced forever — craven — a man of plots, 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambush- 

ings— 
No fault of thine: let Kay, the seneschal, 
Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied — 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be 

seen!" 

And many another suppliant crying came 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and 

man. 
And evermore a knight would ride away. 

Last Gareth leaning both hands heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, 
Approach'd between them toward the King, 

and ask'd, 
" A boon. Sir King (his voice was all asham- 
ed). 
For see ye not how weak and hunger-worn 
I seem- — leaning cm these? grant me to serve 
For meat and drink among thy kitchen- 
knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. 
Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King, 

' • A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon ! 

But an thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, 

The master of the meats and drinks, b« 

thine." 



CAKETII AND LYKETTE. 



279 



lie rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien 
\Van-sallG\v as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

«' Lo ye now! 
This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, 

where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow. 
However that might chance! but an lie 

work. 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he bhine than any hog." 

Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and 

all the hounds; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not 

know : 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and 

hands 
Large, fair and fine! — Some young lad's 

mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, 
Lest he should come to shame thy judging 

of him." 

Then Kay, " \Vhat murmurest thou oi 
mystery? 

Think ve' this fellow will poison the King's 
dish? 

Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! 

Tut, and the lad were noble, he had ask'd 

For horse and armor: fair and fine, for- 
sooth! 

Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see ihou 
to it 

That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some 
fine day 

Undo thee not — and leave my man to me.'" 



So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen vassalage; 
Ate with young lads his portion by the door. 
And couch'd at night with grimy kitchen- 
knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly. 
But Kay the ser"schal who loved him not 
Would hustle and harry him, and labor him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew 

wood, 
Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bow'd himself 



All kind of service with a noble case 
That graced the lowliest act in doing it. 
And when the thralls had talk among them- 
selves. 
And one would praise the love that linkt 

the King 
And Lancelot — how the King had saved his 

life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 

King's — 
For Lancelot was tlie first in Tournament, 
But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field — 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, 
How once the wandering forester at dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the Kin^-, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot die " — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were 

foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark. 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud 
That first they mcck'd, but, after, rever- 
enced him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling 

\^ay 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, • 
Charm'd; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would 

come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them all 

apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among them- 
selves, 
vSo there were any trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone. 
Was counted best: and if there chanced a 

joust. 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go. 
Would hurry thither, and when he saw the 

knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring wave. 
And the spear spring, and good horse reel, 

the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 



So for a month he wrought among t' c 
thralls; 
But in the weeks that follow'd, the good 
Queen, 



With all obedience to the King, and wrought] Repentant of the word she made him swear, 



28o 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And saddening in her childless castle, sent. 
Between the increscent and decrescentj 

moon, i 

Arms for her son, and loosed him from his| 

vow. 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney once,| 
When both were children, and in lonely! 

haunts ! 

Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, j 
And each at either dash from either end- — ! 
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth 

joy. 
He laugh'd; he sprang. " Out of the smoke, 

at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — nay, the 

King's — 
Descend into the city " : whereon he sought 
The King alone, and found, and told him 

all. 
" I have stagger'd thy strong Gawain in 

a tilt 
For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. 
Make me thy knight — in secret! let my name 
Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, I 

spring 
Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd and made him flush, 

and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'dhim, 
" Son, the good mother let me know thee 

here. 
And sent her wish that I would yield thee 

thine. 
Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn 

to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness. 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from his 

knees, 
" My King, for hardihood I can promise 

thee. 
For uttermost obedience make demand 
Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 
No mellow master of the meats and drinks! 
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet. 
But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
"Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but 
he, 



Our noblest brother, and our truest man, 
And one with me in all, he needs must 
know." 

" Let Lancelot know, my King, let 
Lancelot know. 
Thy noblest and thy truest!" 

And the King — 
" But wherefore would ye men should 

wonder at you? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood do the 

deed. 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
" Have I not earn'd my cake in baking of 

it? 
Let be my name until I make my name! 
My deeds will speak: it is but for a day." 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm 
Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly 
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. 
Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 
" I have given him the first quest: he is not 

proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for this in 

hall, 
Thou get to horse and follow him far away. 
Coyer the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor 

slain." 

Then that same day there past into the 

hall 
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 
May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom. 
Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender 

nose 
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; 
She into hall past with her page and cried, 

"O King, for thou hast driven the foe 

without. 
See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset 
By bandits, every one that owns a tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye 

there? 
Rest would I not. Sir King, an I were king. 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 
From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth 
From that blest blood it is a sin to spill." 

" Comfort thyself," said Arthur, " I nor 
mine 
Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows 
they swore, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



2S1 



The wastest moorland of our realm shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
^Vhat is thy name? thy need?" 

" My name?" she said — 
" Lynette my name; noble; my need, a 

knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 
And comely, yea, and comelier than my 

self. 
She lives in Castle Perilous : a river 
Runs in three loops about her living-place; 
And o'er it arc three passings, and three 

knights 
Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth 
And of that four the mightiest, holds her 

stay'd 
In her own castle and so besieges her 
To break her will, and make her wed with 

him: 
And but delays his purport till thou send 
To do the battle with him, thy chief man 
Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, 
Then wed, with glory; but she will not wed 
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask'd, 
" Uamsel, ye know this (Jrder lives to crush 
All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these 

four. 
Who be they? What the fashion of the men?' 
" They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad and do but what they will; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, 
Such as have nor law nor king; and three of 

these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves the 

Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening- 
Star, 
Being strong fools; and never a whit mure 

wise 
The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. 
He names himself the Night and oftener 

Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted with a skull 
And bears a skeleton figured on Ins arms. 
To show that who may slay or scape the three 
Slain by himself shall enter endless night. 
And all of these four be fools, but mighty 

men, * 

And therefore am I come for Lantelot." 



Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where he rose, 
A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 
"A boon. Sir King — this quest!" then — 

for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning .like a wounded 

bull— 
" Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am \, 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am 1 , 
And I can topple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise. King," and Arthur glancing 

at him. 
Brought down a momentary brow. " Rough, 

sudden. 
And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore," and all hearers were amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 

pride, wrath. 
Slew the May-wliite: sh.e lifted either arm, 
" Fie on thee. King! I ask'd for thy chief 

knight. 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen - 

knave." 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 

turn'd. 
Fled down the lane of access to the King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, and 

past 
The weird white gate, and paused without, 

beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring " kitchen- 
knave." 

Now two great entries open'd from tlie 
hall. 
At one end one, that gave upon a range 
Of level pavement where the King would 

pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood. 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of tow- 
ers. 
And out of this main doorway past the 

King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm could 

ride 
Therethro' nor graze: and by this entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the doer 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, 
A waihorse of the best, and near it stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd him: 



2&2 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that 

held 
The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth 

loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire. 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and 

flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, tliat making slide apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there 

burns 
A jewel'd harness, ere they pass and fly. 
So Gareth ere he parted iiash'd in arms. 
Then while he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
Ar.d mounted horse and graspt a spear, of 

grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, andtipt 
With trenchant steel, around him slowly 

prest 
The people, and from out of kitchen came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who had 

work'd 
Lustier than any, and whom they could but 

love, 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and 

cried, 
" God bless the King, and all his fellow- 
ship! " 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode 
Down the slope street, and past without 

the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his 

cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being named, 
His owner, but remembers all, and growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used 
To hurry and hustle. 

" Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms — the King hath past 

his time — 
My scullion knave! Thralls to your work 

again. 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve in 

East? 
Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and like enow 
Some old head blow not heeded in his 

youth 
So shook his wits they wonder in his 

prime — 



Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice, 
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen 

knave. 
Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, 
Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, and leani 
Whether he know me for his master yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance 
Hold, bv God's grace, he shall into the 

luire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
" Kay, wherefore will ye go against the 

King, 
For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in thee? 
Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and 

sword." 
" Tut, tell not me," said Kay, " ye are over- 
fine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies." 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond the 
gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet 
Mutter'd the damsel, " Wherefore did the 

King 
Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at 

least 
He might have yielded to me one of those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here. 
Rather than— O sweet heaven ! O fie upon 

him — - 
His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(And there were none but few goodlier than 

he) 
Shining ill arms, " Damsel, the quest is mine. 
Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as one 
That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the holt, 
And deems it carrion of some woodland 

thing, 
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose 
With petulant thumb and finger shrilling, 

" Hence! 
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. 
And look who comes behind," for there was 

Kay. 
" Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am 

Kay. 
We lack thee by the hearth." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



25: 



And Gareth to him, 
" Master no more! too well I know thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall." 
" Have at thee then," said Kay : they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast away she 

tied. 

Bnt after sod and shingle ceased to Piy 
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in my fel- 
lowship? 
Dcem'st thou that I accept thee aught the 

more 
Or love thee better, that by some device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, 
Thou hast overthrown and slam thy master — 

thou! — 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! — to 

me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before." 

" Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd gently, 
" say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 
Or die therefor." 

" Ay, wilt thou finish it? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the man- 
ner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, 

knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shall not once dare to look him in the face." 



" I shall assay," said Gareth with a smile 
That madden'd her, and away she flash'd 

again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless 

wood. 
And Gareth following was again beknaved 

" Sir Kitchen -knave, I have miss'd the 

only way 

Where Arthur's men are set along the wood; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves: 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of 

thine? 



Fight, an thou canst: I have miss'd the 
only way." 

So till the dusk that follow'd evensong 
Rode on the two, revilcr and reviled: 
Then after one long slope was mounted, 

saw. 
Bowl-shaped, thro' lops of many thousand 

pines 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere, 
Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, 
Under the half-dead sunset glared; and 

cries 
Ascended, and there brake a servingman 
Flying from out of the black wcud, and 

crying, 
"They have bound my lord to caitl him in 

the mere." 
Then Gareth, "Bound am I to right the 

wrong'd. 
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee." 
And when the damsel spake contemptu- 
ously, 
" Lead and I follow," Gareth cried again, 
"Follow, I lead!" so down among the 

pines 
He plunged; and there, blackshadow'd 

nigh the mere. 
And mid-thifjh-deep in bulrushes and reed, 
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but 

three 
Fled thro' the pines; and Gareth loosed the 

stone 
From off his neck, then in the mere beside 
Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free 

feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Aitliur's friend. 



" Well that ye came, or else these caitiff 

rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me; good 

cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 
To catch my thief, and then like vermin 

here 
Drown him, and with a stone about his 

neck; 
And under this wan water many of them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have 

saved a life 



284 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swiii 
wood. Than ride abroad redressingr women 

And fain would I reward thee worshipfully 
What guerdon will ye?" 



Gareth sharply spake, 
"None! for the deed's sake have I done 

the deed, 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But will ye yield this damsel harborage?" 

Whereat the Baron saying, " I well be- 
lieve 
Ye be of Arthur's Table," a light laugh 
Broke from Lynette, "Ay, truly of a truth, 
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 
But deem not I accept thee aught the more. 
Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit 
Down on a rout of craven foresters. 
A thresher with his Mail hadscatter'd them. 
Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still. 
But an this lord will yield us harborage, 
Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond the 

wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast ha:d been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand left, 
And many a costly cate, received the three. 
And there they placed a peacock in his 

pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

" Meseems, that here is much discour- 
tesy. 
Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. 
Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur's 

hall. 
And pray'd the King would grant me 

Lancelot 
To fight the brotherhood of Day and 

Night^ 
The last a monster unsubduable 
Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 
Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 
' The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am \, 
And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am 

L' 
Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, 
' Go therefore,' and so gives the quest to 
him — 



11 



wrong. 
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 



Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, tli 
lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, left 
The damsel by the peacock in his pride. 
And, seating Gareth at another board, 
Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 

" Friend, whether ye be kitchen-knave 

or not. 
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy. 
And whether she be mad, or else the King 
Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 
I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke 
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal 
And saver of my life; and therefore now. 
For here be mighty men to joust with, weigl 
Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel bad 
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the Kin^ 
Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail, \ 
The saver of my life." j 

I 

And Gareth said J 

" Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, ; 

Despite of Day and Night and Death ar-il 

Hell." 

So when, next morn, the lord whose lifq 
he saved 

Had, some brief space, convey'd them 
their way 

And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth 
spake, 

" Lead and I follow." Haughtily she re- 
plied, 

" I fly no more; I allow thee for an hou' . 
Lion and .stoat have isled together, knavr, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, nu- 

thinks 
Some ruth is mine forthee. Back wilt tliou, 

fool? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee: then will I to court again. 
And shame the King for only yielding me 
My champion from the ashes of his hearth." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd courteously,' 
" Say thou thy say, and I will do my d.eed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt findi 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



285 



[y fortunes all as fair as hers, who lay 
mong the ashes and wedded the King's 
son." 

Then to the shore of one of those long 

loops 
\^herethro' the serpent river coil'd, they 

came, 
.ough-thicketed were the banks and steep; 

the stream 
"ull, narrow; this a bridge of single arc 
'00k at a leap; and on the further side 
j irose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
j n streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, 
■ave that the dome was purple, and above, 
! Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
\.nd therebefore the lawless warrior paced 
Jnarm'd, and calling, " Damsel, is this he, 
rhe champion ye have brought from Ar- 
thur's hall? 
-•"or whom we let thee pass." " Nay, nay," 

she said, 
-' Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn 
3f thee and thy much folly hath sent thee 

here 
iis kitchen-knave : and look thou to thyself: 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
\nd slay thee unarm'd: he is not knight 

but knave." 

Then at his call, " O daughters of the 

Dawn, 
A.nd servants of the Morning-Star, approacl 
A.rni me," from out the silken curtain-folds 
Barefooted and bareheaded three fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd; and the hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and gave a 

shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning star. 
And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight. 
Who stood a moment, ere his horse was 

brought. 
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, 

shone, 
Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and. the star. 

Then she that watch'd him, "Wherefore 
stare ye so? 
Tliuu iiliakest in thy fear; there yet is time 



Flee down the valley before he get to horse. 
Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight 
but knave." 

Said Gareth, " Damsel, whether knave or 

knight, 
Far liever had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and revile. 
Fair words were best for him who fights for 

thee; 
But truly foul are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine arms, I 

know 
That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from o'er the 

bridge, 
" A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me! 
Such fight not L hut answer scorn with scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his horse 
And arms, and so return him to the King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady." 

" Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own." 
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and either 

spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight at 

once, 
Hurl'd as a stone frum out of a catapult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, 
Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew. 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
He drave his enemy backward down the 

bridge. 
The damsel crying," Well-stricken, kitchen- 
knave!" 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one 

stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on the 

ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, " Take not my life; 

I yield." 
And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it of me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, "Insolent scullion: I of 

thee ? 



2S6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



I bound to thee for any favor ask'd!" The knave that doth thee service as full 

"Then shall he die." And Gareth there knight 

unlaced Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 

His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek'd. Toward thy sister's freeing." 
" Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, thy "Ay, Sir Knave! 

charge , Ay, knave, because thou strikestas a knight 

Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Being but knave, I hate thee all the more." 
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise 



And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See 

thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell; and, damsel, 

thou, 

and I follow." 



" Fair damsel, ye should worship me the 
more. 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies." 



Lead, 



Then 



And fast away she fled. 

when he came upon her, spake, 

Methought 



"Ay, ay," she said, 
meet thy match." 



■ but thou shall 



So when they touch'd the second river- 
loop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail 
i Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noonday 

Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on the ^'•^'^ . .. , - 

l^j.j^^g ; Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, 

The savor of thy kitchen came upon me I'^^'^t blows a globe of after arrowlets, 
A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:; Ten thousand-fo d had grown, flash'd the 
I scent it twentyfold." And then she sang, i 'i\i^xzz shield, , , „ • 

" ' O morning star' (not that tall felon there ^^^ ^un; and Gareth s eyes had flying blots 
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness 

Of some device, hast foully overthrown), • , ,, 

' O morning star that smilest in the blue, j ^^"^ f'"^'" beyond the roaring shallow roar d, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven true,! " What doest thou, brother, in my marches 
Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled 
on me.' 



Befor 



them when he turn'd from watchins 
him. 



< ' Bu! thou begone, take counsel, and away, i 

* For hard by here is one that guards a fori. — j 

The second brother in their fool's parable — ■ 

Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. 

(are not for shame: thou art not knight but 

knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laughingly, 
" Parables? Hear a parable of the knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the rest 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co- 
mates 
(Jwn'd a rough do, 
coat. 



here?' 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's 

hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his 

arms." 
" Ugh!" cried the Sun, and vizoring up a 

red 
And cipher face of rounded foolishness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of the 

ford. 
Whom Gareth met midstream: no room 

was there 
For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes 

they struck 
to whom he cast his; With sword, and these were mighty; the 
I new knight 



' Guard it,' and there was none to meddle; Had fear he might be shamed; but as the 



with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee the 

King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, 
To worry, and not to flee — and — knight or 

knave — 



Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the 

flfth. 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, 

the stream 
Descended, and the Sua v/as wash'd away. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



2S7 



Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the 

ford; , sna'c 

So drew him home; but he that would not (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, 

fight, ' Larding and basting. See thou heave not 

As being all bone battered on the rock, 1 now 

Yielded; and (Jareth sent him to the King. Larded thy last, except thou turn and fiy. 
"Myself when I return will plead for thee. There stands the third fool of their allegoiy.' 
Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. j 
" Iialh not the good wind, damsel, changed! For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, 

again? " ♦ 'AH in a rose-red from the west, and all 

•• >ay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.! Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad 
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; [Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 
H is horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I saw it. | knight, 

'That named himself the Star of Evening, 
" • OSun' (not this strong fool whom thou,' stood. 

Sir Knave, 



Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappiness), 
« O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, 
O moon, that iayest all to sleep again. 
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on 



"What knowest thou of lovesong or of 
love? 
•Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born. 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, per- 
chance, — 

" * (J dewy flowers that open to the sun, 
C) dewy flowers that close when day is done, 
Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on 
me.' 

"What knowest thou of flowers, except, 

belike, 
To garnish meats with? hath not our good 

King, 
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, 
A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye 



And Gareth, "Wherefore waits the mad- 
man there 
Naked in open dayshine? " "Nay," she 

cried, 
" Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd skins 
That fit him like his own; and so ye ckave 
His armor oil him, these will turn the 
blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er the 

bridge, 
" O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? 
Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain 
The damsel's champion?" and the damsel 

cried, 

" No star of thine, but shot ft'om Arthur's 

heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee I 
For both thy younger brethren have gone 

down 
Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir 

Star; 
Art thou not old?" 



round 

The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's ,. , , , , , , ,11 

'^v ^ .p " Old, damsel, old and hard, 

Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and «ld, with tlie might and breath of twenty 

bay. 



" ' O birds, that warble to the morning 

sky, 
birds that warble as the day goes by. 
Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled 

on me.' 

" What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, 
merle, 
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth 



boy; 
Said Gareth, " Old, and over-bold in brag! 
But that same strength which threw the 

Morning- Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
"Approach and arm me!" Willi slow 

steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, niany-stain'd 



May-music growing with the giowing light, [I'avilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And arm'd him in old arms, and brought a 

helm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even 
llalf-tarnish'd and half-bright, his emblem, 

shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle-bow, 
Tliey madly hurl'd together on the bridge, 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew him 

again, 
But up like fire he started: and as oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his 

knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 

heart. 
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, 
Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life. 
But these from all his life arise, and cry, 
" Thou hast made us lords, and canst not 

put us down!" 
He half despairs; so Gareth seem'd to strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the while, 
" Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, 

O good knight- knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round — 
His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd 

skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never change 

again." 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote. 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor oft 

him. 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd skin, 
And could not wholly bring him under, 

more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on 

ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and 

sprmgs 
Forever; till at length Sir CJareth's brand 
Clash'd his, and break it utterly to the hilt. 
" I have thee now"; but forth that other 

sprang, 
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his uttermost 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er the 

bridge 



Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 
" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer; ride thou at my side; 
Thou art the kingliest of allkitchen-'icnaves. 

" ' O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after rain. 
Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled 
on me.' 

" Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had added 

— Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, 
Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the 

King 
Scorn'dme and mine; and now thy pardon, 

friend. 
For thou hast ever answer'd courteously, 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave, 
Mast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou 

art." 

"Damsel," he said, "ye be not all to 

blame. 
Saving that ye mistrusted our good King 
Would handle scorn., or yield thee, asking, 

one 
Not fit to cope thy quest. Ye said your say; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! 

I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor 

meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought 

for me: 
And seeing now thy words are fair, me- 

thinks, 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his 

great self. 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, 
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, 

dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at 

him. 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand. 
Where bread and baken meats and good 

red wine 



GARETH AAD LYNETTE. 



2S9 



Of Soutliland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited 
him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on 

horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly waning 

hues. 
" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was 

here, 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their alle- 
gory 
From these damp walls, and taken Lut the 

form . 
Know ye not these?" and Gareth lookt 

and read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming 

Gelt— 
" Phosphorus," then " Meridies " — 

" Hesperus " — 
" Nox "■ — "Mors," beneath five figures 

armed men, 
vSlab after slab, their faces forward all, 
And running down the Soul, a Shape that 

fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose 

hair, 
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 
" Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, 
Who comes behind?" 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced. 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, 

cried, 
" Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my 

friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry; 
l)Ut when they closed — in a moment — at 

one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the 

world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell, 
19 



That when he found the grass within his 

hands 
He laugh'd; the laughter jarr'd upon Ly- 

nette: 
Flarshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and over- 
thrown , 
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, 
Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in 

vain?" 
"Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, 
And victor of the bridges and the ford. 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by 

whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness — 
Device and sorcery and imhappiness — 
Out, sword; we are thrown! " and Lancelot 

answer'd, " Prince, 
O Gareth— thro' the mere unhappiness 
Of one who came to help thee not to harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, 
As on the day when Arthur knighted him." 



• Thou — Lancelot! — thine 
An some chance to mar 



Then Gareth, ' 

the hand 
That threw me? 

the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which could not 

chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear 
Shamed had I been and sad — O Lancelot 

—thou!" 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, "Lan- 
celot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd? and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd? I gloried in my 

knave. 
Who being still rebuked, woxild answer still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, if 

knight. 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd and 

trick'd. 
And only wondering wherefore play'd upon : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's 

hall. 
In Arthur's presence? Kniffht, knave, 

prince and fool, 
I hate thee and forever." 

And Lancelot said, 
"Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art 
thou 



290 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



To the King's best wish. O damsel, be ye 

wise 
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a 

time. 
Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last. 
And overthrower from being overthrown. 
With sword we have not striven; and thy 

good horse 
And thou art weary; yet not less I felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of 

thine. 
Well hast thou done; for all the stream 

freed, 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes. 
And when reviled, hast answer'd graciously. 
And makest merry, when overthrov/n. 

Prince, Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table 
Round!" 

And then when turning to Lynette he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 
<' Ay well — ay well — for worse than being 

fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and 

drinks 
And forage for his horse, and flint for fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till ye find." And when they sought 

and found, 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life 
Past into sleep; on \vhom the maiden 

gazed. 
"Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to 

sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him 
As any mother? Ay, but such a one 
As all day long hath rated at her child. 
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honey- 
suckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world were 

one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness 
O Lancelot, Lancelot" — and she clapt her 

hands — 
" Full merry am I to find my goodly knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have 

I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me pass, 
To bring thee back to do the battle with 

him. 
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; 



Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight- 
knave 
Miss the full flower of his accomplishment." 



ot. 



Peradventure he, ye 
Let Gareth, an he 



Said Lancel 

name. 
May know my shield. 

will, 
Change his for mine, and take my charger, 

fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as well 
As he that rides him." " Lancelot-like," 

she said, 
" Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as in 

all." 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch'd 

the shield; 
"Ramp, ye _ lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord!— 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for 

you. 

noble Lancelot, from my hold on these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will not 

shame. 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. 
Hence: let us go." 

.Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' summer- 
wan. 
In counter motion to the clouds, allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. 
A star shot: " Lo," said Gareth, "the foe 

falls!" 
An owl whoopt: " Hark the victor pealing 

there!" 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, 

crying, 
" Yield, yield him this again: 't is he must 
fight: 

1 curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lance- 
lot now 

To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye 

have done; 
Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow 
In having flung the three: I see thee maim'd, 
iNIangled: I swear thou canst not fling the 

fourth." 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



291 



And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, 



know. 
Ye cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, 
ISrute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appall me from the quest." 



Black, with black banner, and a long black 

horn 
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, 
And so, before the two could hinder him, 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all the 

horn. 
Ecbo'd the walls; a light twinkled; anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again he 

blew ; 
nor have I heard ihe-^^'^^^^'^'-'" were hollow tramplings up and 



" Nay, Prince," she cried 
" God wot, I never look'd upon the face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day; 
But watch'd him have I like a phantom pass 
Chilling the night 

voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page 
Who came and went, and still reported him 
As closing in himself the strength of ten, 
And when his anger tare him, massacring 
l^lan, woman, lad and girl — yea, the soft 

babe — 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant 

flesh. 
Monster! O prince, I went for Lancelot first. 
The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the 

shield." 

Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight for 
this. 
Belike he wins it as the better man: 
Thus — and not else?" 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
Where one might meet a mightier than him- 
self; 
How best to manage horse, lance, sword 

and shield. 
And so fill up the gap where force might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were his 
words. 

Then Gareth, " Here be rules. I know 

but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to win. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the joust, 
And seen thy way." ' ' Heaven help thee," 

sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud that 
grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey halt. 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, 

" There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, pitch'd 
IVside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 



down 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; 
Till high above him, circled with her maids. 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood. 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to him 
White hands, and courtesy; but when the 

Prince 
Three times had blown — after long hush — 

at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up. 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on anight-black horse, in night-black 

arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of 

Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter — some 

ten steps — 
In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn — ad- 
vanced 
The monster, and then paused, and spake no 

word. 

But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 
" Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength 

of ten. 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath 

given. 
But must, to make the terror of thee 

more. 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, and the 

clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with man- 
tling flowers 
As if for pity?" But he spake no word; 
Which set the horror higher: a maiden 

swoon'd; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and 

wept. 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night and 

Death; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his 

helm ; 



2«92 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm blood 

felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him were 

aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely 

neigh'd — 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded for- 
ward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the terror 

saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly 

rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the 

skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and lay. 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the 

helm 
As throughly as the skull; and out from 

this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying 

" Knight, 
Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do 

it, 
To make a horror all about the house. 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 
They never dream'd the passes would be 

past." 



Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, " My fair 

child. 
What madness made thee challenge the 

chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall?" "Fair Sir, they bad 

me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend, 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the 

stream. 
They never dream'd the passes could be 

past." 

Then sprang the happier day from un- 
derground; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with 

dance 
And revel and song, made merry over Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only prdv'n a blooming boy. 
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the 
nuest. 

And he that told the tale in older 
times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, .says Lynette. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



The brave Geraint,a knight of Arthur's court 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great order of the Table Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 
And loved her, as he loved the light of 

Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 



To cleanse this common sewer of all his 

realm. 
He craved a fair permission to depart. 
And there defend his marches; and the king 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them, to the 

shores, 
I Of Severn, and they past to their own land; 
With moon and trembling stars, so loved Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 

Geraint True to her lord, mine shall be so to me. 

To make her beauty vary day l)y day, iHe compass'd her with sweet observances 

In crimsons and in purples and in gems. jAnd worship, never leaving her, and grew 
And Enid, but to please her husband's: Forgetful of his promise to tlie king, 
eye. Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt. 

Who first had found and loved her in a state Forgetful of the tilt and tournament. 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

In some fresh splendor; and the Queen her- Forgetful of his princedom and its cares, 
self. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. 



Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, 
Loved her, and often with her own white 

hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true 

heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced Ge- 
raint. 
But wdien a rumor rose about the Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was 

heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking into 

storm, 
Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, 
Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint 
In nature: wherefore going to the king. 
He made this pretext, that his princedom 

lay 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights. 
Assassins, and all fliers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law; 
And therefore, till the king himself should 

please, 



And by and by the people, when they met 
In twos and threes, or fuller companies. 
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 
As of a prince whose manhood was all gone. 
And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 
And this she gather'd from the people's 

eyes: 
This too the woman who attired her head. 
To please her, dwelling on his boimdless 

love. 
Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more: 
And day by day she thougiit to tell Cjeraint, 
But could not out of bashful delicacy; 
While he that watch'd her sadden, was the 

more 
Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last it chanced that on a summer morn 
(They sleeping each by either) the new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of the 

room. 
And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside. 
And bared the knotted column of his throat. 
The massive square of his heroic breast, 
And arms on which the standing muscle 

sloped. 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch. 
Admiring him, and thought within herselt. 
Was ever man so grandly made as he? 

(293) 



294 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him. 
Low to her own heart piteously she said: 

" O noble breast and all-puissant arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone? 
I am the cause because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what they 

say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger here; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on him, 
And ride with him to Ijattle and stand by, 
And watch his mightful hand striking great 

blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearmg any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear aims. 
And darken'd from the high light in his 

eyes. 
Than that my lord thro' me should suffer 

shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
Or maybe pierced to death before mine 

eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think. 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy? 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke. 
And the strong passion in her made her 

weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast. 
And these awoke him, and by great mis- 
chance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. 
And then he thought, "In spite of all my 

care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my 

pains. 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's 

hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too 

much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul act 
Right thro' his manful breast darted the 

panjj 



That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and misera- 
ble. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and 

cried, 
" My cha'ger and her palfrey," then to 

her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And you, put on your worst and meanest 

dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 
But he, *' I charge you, ask not but obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet. 
Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
With sprigs of summer laid between the 

folds. 
She took them, and array'd herself therein, 
Remembering when hrst he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and ho^v he loved her 

in it. 
And all her foolish fears, about the dress. 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

For Arthur on the W^hitsuntide before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in hall. 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, 
First seen that day: these things he told the 

king. 
Then the good king gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were 

gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her 

love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; 
Ikit rose at last, a single maiden with her. 
Took hoise, and forded Usk, and gain'd the 

wood; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 



OERAINT AND ENID. 



295 



Waiting to hear tlie hounds; but heard in- 
stead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Ce- 

raint, 
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand. 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford 
Beiiind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
Tliere swung an apple of the purest gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd 

him : 
"Late, late. Sir Prince," she said, "later 

tlian we! " 
" Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, " and so 

late 
Tliat I but come like you to see the hunt. 
Not join it." " Therefore wait with nie, 

she said; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good* chance that we shall hear the 

hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our feet." 

And while they listen'd for the distant 

hunt. 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth , there 

rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the 

knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old, and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride. 
Made answer sharply that she should not 

know. 
"Then will I ask it of himself," she said 
"Nay, by my faith, thou shaft not," cried 

the dwarf; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him"; 
And when she put her horse toward the 

knight. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint 
Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the name," 



Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of 

him. 
Who answer'd as before; and Vvhcn the 

Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward the 

knight. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his 

cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf. ■ 
Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: 
But he, from his exceeding manlulncss 
And pure nobility of temperament. 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, rcfrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning said: 



"I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to yourself: 
And I will track this vermin to their earths; 
For tho' I ride unarm 'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
Onloan,orelse for piledge ; and, ])eing found, 
Then will I fight him, and will break his 

pride. 
And on the third day, will again be here. 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Faicwell." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," ansv.-er'd the 
stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; 
And may ye light on all things that ye love, 
And live to wed with her whom first ye love : 
But ere ye wed with any, bring your bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a king. 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he 

heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the three. 
At last they issued from the world of \\ ood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
And show'd themselves against the sky, and 

sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress 

rose; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 



296 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine: 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for tlie night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
" So," thought Geraint, " I have track'd 

him to his earth." 
And down the long street riding wearily, 
Found every hostel full, and everywhere 
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 
And bustling whistle of the youth wh(i 

scour'd 
His master's armor; and of such a one 
He ask'd, " What means the tumult in the 

town? " 
Who told him, scouring still " The sparrow- 
hawk!" 
Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam. 
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the hub- 
bub here? 
Who answer'd gruffly, *' Ugh! the sparrow- 
hawk." 
Then riding further past an armorer's. 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above 

his work, 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee. 
He put the self-same query, but the man 
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : 
"Friend, he that labors for the sparrow- 
hawk 
Has little time for idle questioners." 
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : 
*'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- 
hawk ! 
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck 

him dead! 
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 
The murmur of the world! What is it to 

me? 
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all. 
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! 
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 
Where can I get me harborage for the night? 
And arms, arms, arms to light my enemy? 

Speak?" 
At this the armorer turning all amazed 
And seeing one so gay in purple silks. 
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 
And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stranger 
knight; 



We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn. 
And there is scantly time for half the work. 
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted 

here. 
Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, 

save. 
It may be, at Earl Yniol!s, o'er the bridge 
Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ra- 
vine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, 
(^nce fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : 
"Whither, fair son?" to whom CJeraint 

replied, 
"O friend, I seek a harborage for the 

night." 
Then Yniol, "Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 

door'd." 
"Thanks, venerable friend," replied Ge- 
raint; 
"So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 
With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed 

Earl, 
And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours is 

mine 
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow- 
hawk; 
But in, go in; for save yourself desire it. 
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court. 
His charger trampling many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistles on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with 

fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the 

cliff. 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers; 
And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 

arms. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



297 



And suck'd the joining of the stones, and 

look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle court. 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, 
.Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird. 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of tJie plumage and the form; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; 
And made him like a man abroad at morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green 

and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands. 
To think or say, " there is the nightin- 
gale"; 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and 

said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one voice 
for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang was 
one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang: 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and 

lower the proud; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, 

and cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown : 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

'< Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own 

hands; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

*' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring 

crowd; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate." 



" Hark, by the bird's song you may learn 
the nest," 
Said Yniol; "Enter quickly." Entering 

then. 
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, 
The dusky-rafter'd many-cobwebb'd Hall, 
fie found an ancient dame in dim brocade; 
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, 
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath. 
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 
Her daughter. In a moment thought Ge- 
raint, 
" Here by God's rood is the one maid for 

me." 
But none spake word except the hoary Earl ; 
" Enid, the good knight's horse stands in 

the court; 
Take him to stall, and give him corn, and 

then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; 
And we will make us merry as we may. , 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." 

He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, 
fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said " For- 
bear! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my Son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve him- 
self." 
And reverencing the custom of the house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall; 
And after went her way across the bridge. 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince 

and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and 

wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them 

cheer, 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the 

board. 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, 
That crost the trencher as she laid it down: 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
Foi- now the wine made summer in his veins, 



29S 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
( )n Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me ot 

him. 
His name? but no, good faith, I will not 

have it: 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your town, 
White from the mason's hand, then have I 

sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
Of Devon— for this morning when the Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the name. 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing. 
Struck ather with his whip, andshe return'd 
Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold. 
And fight and break his pride, aad have it 

of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men are 

mad; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the 

world; 
They would not hear me speak: but if ye 

know 
Where' I can liglit on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have 

sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his 

name. 
Avenging this great insult done the Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol. " Art thou he 

indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by your 

state 
And presence might have guess'd you one 

of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
P'or this dear child hath often heard me 

praise 

Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong 



never yet had woman such a pair 

Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and v.ine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd; and be he dead 

1 know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let his 

name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he. 
When I that knew him fierce and turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; 
And since the proud man often is the mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common ear. 
Affirming that his father left him gold. 
And in my charge, which was not render'd 

to him; 
Bribed with large promises the men who 

served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat broken 

into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality; 
Raised my own town against me in the 

night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted me; 
Built that new fort to overawe- my friends, 
For truly there are those who love me yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, 
Where doubtless he would put me soon to 

death. 
But that his pride too much despises me: 
And 1 myself sometimes despise myself; 
For I have let men be, and have their way; 
Am much too gentle, have not used my 

power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish; only this I know, 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, 

"but arms: 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, 

fight, 
In next day's tourney I may break his pride." 

And Yniol answer'd "Arms, indeed, but 

old 
And rusty, old and rusty. Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, 

thine. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



200 



Except ihc lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, 
And over these is laid a silver wand, 
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, v/hat knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
lias ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow- 
hawk. 
But you, that have no lady,tanst not hglit." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright 
replied. 
Leaning a little toward him, "Thy leave! 
Let ;«t' lay lance in rest, O noble host. 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost. 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 
And looking round he saw not Enid there, 
(W ho hearing her own name had slipt away) 
]5ut that old dame, to v\'hom full tenderly 
And fondling all her hand in his he said, 
" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thqu go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the 
Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and 

she 
With frequent smile and nod departing 

found. 
Half disarray '.d as to her rest, the girl; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and 

then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her oft and gazed upon her face, 
And t(jld her all their converse in the liall 
Proving her heart: but never light and 

shade 

Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and 

pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing herj 



While slowly falling as a scale that lalJs, 
When weight is added only grain by gram. 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness; 
And when the p^le and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand they 

moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts were 

held 
And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and when 

Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 
The chair cf Idris. Yniol's rusted amis 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant 

knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
P'low'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the ground. 
And over these they placed a silver wand, 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumjiet blown. 
Spake to the lady v.ith him and proclaim'd, 
"Advance and take as fairest of the fair. 
For I these two years past have won it for 

thee, 
The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the 

Prince, 
"Forbear : there is a worthier," and the 

knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much dis- 
dain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
" Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake 

their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd 

at each 
So often and with such blows, that all the 

crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from distant 

walls 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



There came a clapping as of phantom hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they breath- 
ed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

their force. 
But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's 

cry, 
"Remember that great insult done the 

Queen," 
Increased (xcraint's, who heaved his blade 

aloft. 
And crack'd the helmet thro', ami bit the 

bone. 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast. 
And said, " Thy name?" To whom the 

fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son of 

Nudd! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen my fall." 
" Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied 

Geraint, 
"These two things shalt thou do, or else 

thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy dwarf, 
Shalt riile to Arthur's court, and being there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgmen ton it; next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy 

kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou 

shalt die." 
And Edyrn answer'd, "These things will 

I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my jjride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!" 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court. 
And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed, and came 

to loathe 
His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself 
Bright from liis old dark life, and fell at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the hunting- 
morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and 

wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light. 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
Woke and bethought her of her promise 
given 



No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise 

given— 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately 

Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress. 
And thought it never yet had look'd so 

mean. 
F'or as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now .she look'd on to the 

dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror 

grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, 

a court. 
All staring at her in her faded silk: 
And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 

" This noble prince who won our earl- 
dom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire. 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit 

him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here awhile! 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third day. 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger 

lame. 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 



And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a 

costly gift 
Of her good mother; given heron the night 
Before her birthday, three sad years ago. 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their 

house. 
And scatter'd all they had to all the winds: 
For while the mother show'd it, and the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and they 

fled 
With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread; 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



301 



And Edyin's men had caught them in their 

flight, 
And placed them in this ruin; and she 

wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient 

home; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she knew; 
And last bethought her how she used to 

watch. 
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp: 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lus- 
treless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep again'; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool ; 
But this was in the garden of a king; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 
That all was bright; that all about were 

birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis- work; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; 
And lords and ladies of the high court 

went 
In silver tissue talking things of state; 
And children of the king in cloth of gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down 

the walks; 
And while she thought " they will not see 

me," came 
A stately queen whose name was Guine- 
vere, 
And all the children in their cloth of gold 
Ran to her, crying, " if we have fish at all 
Let them be gold; and charge the garden- 
ers now 
To pick the faded creature from the pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized on 

her, 
And Enid started waking, with her heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, 
^ And lo! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake; and in her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly: 

" See here, my child, how fresh the col 
. ors look, 
How fast they hold like colors of a shell 



That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
Why not? it never yet was worn, I trow: 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know 

it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish 

dream : 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, 
And answer'd, " Yea, I know it; your good 

gift, 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night; 
Your own good gift!" " Yea, surely," said 

the dame, 
" And gladly given again this happy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday, 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 
He found the sack and plunder of our house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town; 
And gave command that all which once 

was ours, 
Should now be ours again : and yester-eve. 
While you were talking sweetly with your 

Prince 
Came one with this and laid it in my hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my cliild, have yours. 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, 
With store' of rich apparel, sumptuous fare. 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, and 

all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun to 

shade. 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has come; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair. 
Let never maiden think, however fair. 
She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
And should some great court-lady say, the 

Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, 



302 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And like a madman 
court, 



Then were ye shamed, and, worse, mig 

shame the Prince 
To whom we are l)eholden; but I know. 
When my dear child is set forth at her best. 



brought her to the' Yniol with that hard message went; it fell, 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: 
For Enid all abash'd she knew not why, 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's 

face, 
But silently, in all obedience. 



That neither court nor country, tho' they! Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 

sought j Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd 

Thro' all the pro\inces like those of old 1 gift, 

That lighted on Oueen Esther, has her And robed them in her ancient suit again. 



match. 

Here ceased the kindly mother out oi 

breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of 

morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed her 

self, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and 

eye. 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and 

said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the tale. 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out oi 

flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, f(jr whose love the Roman Crcsar first 
Invaded Britain, " but we beat him back. 
As this great prince invaded us, and we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. * 

And I can scarcely ride with you to court, 
For old am L 3-nd rough the ways and wild; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 
I see my princess as I see her now. 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the 

gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, Ge 

raint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and 

call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately queen. 
He answer'd; 

love. 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That bhu ride with uie in her faded silk." 



And so descended. Never man rejoiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at her, 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brov,-, 
Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly 
said. 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or 
grieved 
At your new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so 

sweet. 
Made promise, that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in 

Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall. 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid 

burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought 

perhaps. 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together; fain I would the two 
Should love each other; how can Enid find 
Anobler friend? Anotherthoughtwasmine; 
I came among you here so suddenly. 
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Might well have served for proof that I was 

loved, 
I doubted whether filial tenderness. 
Or easy nature, did not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; 
Or whether some false sense in her own self 



Of my contrasting brightness, ovcrbtire 
Earl, entreat her by my! Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; 

And such a sense might make her long for 

court 
And all its dangerous glories: and I thought, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Z<^Z 



That could I someway prove such force in 

her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her. 
And therefore dearer; or if not so new. 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
Of intermitted usage; then I felt 
That" I could lest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy. 
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my 

thoughts: 
And for my strange petition I will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 
When your fair child shall wear your costly 

gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her 

knees. 
Who knows? another gift of the high God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you 

thanks." 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half 

in tears. 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her 

in it. 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode 

away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had 

climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, 

they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of St)merset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of 

Usk, 
By the fiat meadow, till she saw them come 
And then descending met them at the gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a friend 
And did her honor as the Prince's bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay. 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint. 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony 

And this was on the last' year's Whit 
> suntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk. 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her 
in it, 



And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

And now this morning when he said to her, 

•' I'uton your worst and meanest dress,'' she 

found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein." 



O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a liie-long trouble for ourselves. 
By taking true for false, or false for true; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing 
forth • , 
That morning, when they both had got to 

horse. 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round his 

heart. 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break per- 
force 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side. I charge you ride before, 
Ever a good way on before; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word! " and Enid was aghast; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces 

on, 
When crying out " Effeminate as I am, 
1 will not fight my way with gilded arms, 
All shall be iron"; he loosed a mighty 

purse. 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the 

squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown, 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the 

squire 
Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, 
" To the wilds!" and Enid leading down 

the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they 

past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds. 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the 

hern 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode; 



3'54 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd 

soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely thought 
They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, 
That each had sufter'd some exceeding 

wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself 
" O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 
To compass her with sweet observances, 
To dress her beautifully and keep her true" — 
And there he broke the sentence in his heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters 

him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet hea- 
vens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself, 
Which made him look so cloudy and so 

cold; 
Till the great plover's human whistle 

amazed 
Her heart, and glancing round the waste 

she fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again " if there be such in 

me, 
I might amend it by the grace of heaven, 
If he would only speak and tell me of it." 



But when the fourth part of the day was 

gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, " Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his 

head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound 
Come, we will slay him and will have his 

horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be ours.' 



Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and 

said; 
"I will go back a little to my lord. 
And I will tell hmi all their caitiff talk; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liever by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should suffer loss or 

shame." 



Then she went back some paces of re- 
turn, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said: 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them 

boast 
That they would slay you, and possess your 

horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be 
theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did I 
wish 
Your warning or your silence? one com- 
mand 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus you keep it! Well then, look— 

for now, 
Whether you wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death. 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince 

Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
And out beyond; and then against his brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken on 

him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle. 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd 

the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman 

born 
The three gay suits of armor which they 

wore. 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all tlie three 
Together, and said to her, << Drive them on 
Before you"; and she drove them thro' the 

waste. 

He follow'd nearer; ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on: he fain had spoken to 

her, 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the 

wrath 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



305 



And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all 

within; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her dead, 
Than to cry " Hah," and to her own bright 

face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth 

the more 
That she coiild speak whom his own ear 

had heard 
Call herself false: and suffering thus he 

made 
Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her 

lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, a 

prize! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of 

arms. 
And all in charge of whom? a girl: set 

on." 
"Nay" said the second, "yonder comes a 

kniglit." 
The third, "A craven; how he hangs his 

head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but one? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon 

him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 
said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me 

for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said to 
him 
With timid firmness, " Havp I leave to 

speak?" 
He said, " Ye take it, speaking," and she 
spoke. 
20 



"There lurk three villains yonder in the 

wood. 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one- 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while you 

pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back : 
"And if there were an hundred in the wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside. 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon 

him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but 

Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home. 
And then brake short, and down his enemy 

roll'd, 
And there lay still; as he that tells the tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to 

the beach. 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark fallen, 

stood; 
On whom the victor, to confound them more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry; for as one. 
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract bears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it. 
And foemen scared, like that false pair who 

turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an in- 
nocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the 

lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from those 

dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each from 

each, 



3o6 



IDYLLS OF THE laNG. 



'And bound them on their horses, each on 

each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' the 

wood. 

He follow'd nearer still: the pain she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms. 
Together, served a little to disedge " 
The sharpness of that pain about her heart: 
And they themselves, like creatures gently 

born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, 

and felt 
Her low hrm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they 

past. 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in 

it: 

And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his 

hand 
Bare victual for the mowers; and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: 
Then, moving downward to the meadow 

ground, 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by 

him, said, 
" Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.' 
" Yea, willingly," replied the youth; " and 

thou, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. 
And only meet for mowers "; then set down 
His basket, and dismounting on the sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate them- 
selves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure; but Ge- 
raint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all empty, was amazed; 
And •' Boy," said he, " I have eaten all, 

but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the 

best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 



" My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." 

" Ye will be all the wealthier," cried the 

Prince. 
" I take it as free gift, then," said the boy, 
" Not guerdon: for myself can easily, 
While your good damsel rests, return, and 

fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; 
For these are his, and all the field is his. 
And I myself am his: and I will tell him 
How great a man you are: he loves to know 
When men of mark are in his territory: 
And he will have you to his palace here, 
And serve you costlier than with mowers' 

fare." 

Then said Geraint, " I wish no better 

fare : 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinnerless, 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too much of palaces! 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the night. 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us 

know." 

" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad 

youth, and went. 
Held his head high, and thought himself a 

knight. 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd, 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his er- 
rant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them 

glance 
At Enid, where she droopt: his own false 

doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning 

scythe. 
And after nodded sleepily in the heal. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her holhow turret, pluck'd the grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's 

edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 



OERAINT AND ENID. 



307 



Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, 
Wove and unwove il, till the boy relurn'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they went; 
Where, after saying to her, " If ye will, 
Call for the woman of the house," to which 
She answer'd, " Thanks, my lord "; the two 

remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the lault of birth. 
Or two wild men supporters of a shield, 
Fainted, who stare at open space, nor glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

C)n a sudden, many a voice along the 

street. 
And heel against the pavement echoing, 

burst 
Their drowse; and either started while the 

door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to the 

wall. 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours 
He moving up with pliant courtliness, 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt 

hand. 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye. 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly 

cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously 
According to his fashion, bade the host 
Call in what men soever were his friends. 
And feast with these in honor of their earl; 
" Andcarenot for the cost; the cost is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, and 

Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the word and play'd 

upon it, 
And made il of two colors; for his talk 
When wine and free companions kindled 

liim. 

Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of lifty facets; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd 

Limours, 
"Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, 

and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits apart. 



And seems so lonely?" " My free leave " 

he said; 
Get her to speak: she does not speak to 

me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may 

fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 
Enid the loss ^f whom has turn'd me wild — 
What chance is this? how is it I see you 

here? 
You are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 
I thought, but that your father came be- 
tween. 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
Make me a little happier: let me know it: 
Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you 

are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy- — 
You sit apart, you do not speak to him. 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid. 
To serve you — does he love you as of old? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things they 

love. 
They would not make them laughable in 

all eyes. 
Not while they loved them; and your 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you nu 

more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know it — 

pall'd— 
For I know men: nor will ye win him back, 
For the man's love once gone never returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old; 
With more exceeding passion than of old: 
Good, speak the word: my followers ring 

him round: 
He sits unarm'd; I hold a finger up; 
They understand : no ; I do not mean blof.d : 
Nor need you look so scared at what I say : 



3o8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



My malice is no deeper tiian a moat, 

No stronger tlian a wall: there is the keep; 

He shall not cross us more; speak but the 

word : 
Or speak it not; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
O pardon me! the madness of that hour, 
When first I parted from you, moves me 

yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own voice 
And sweet self pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd his 

eyes, 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the 

feast; 
And answer'd with such craft as women use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and said : 

" Earl, if you love me as in former years, 
And do not practise on nie, come with 

morn, 
And snatch me from him as by violence; 
Leave me to-night: I am weary to the 

death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish^! 

plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous 

Earl, 
And the stout Prince bade him a loud 

good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men. 
How Enid never loved a man but him. 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it. 
Held commune with herself, and while she 

held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly 

pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight. 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, lieap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and 

then 



Went slipping down horrible precipices, 
And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at 

the door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning 

her; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the 

light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world. 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. 
And once again she rose to look at it. 
But touch'd it unawares: jangling, the casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours had said. 
Except the passage that he loved her not; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had used; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity. 
That tho' he thought " was it for him she 

wept 
In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful groan, 
Saying " your sweet faces make good fel- 
lows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid him 

bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided out 
Among the heavy breathings of the house, 
And like a household Spirit at the walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and re- 

turn'd: 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all un- 

ask'd. 
In silence, did him service as a squire. 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host and 

cried, 
" Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he learnt 

it, " Take 
Five horses and their armors" ; and the host, 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
" My lord, I scarce have spent tlie worth of 

one!" 
"Ye will be all the wealthier," said the 

Prince, 
And then to Enid, "Forward! and to-day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially. 
What thing soever ye may hear, or see, 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that^ye speak not but 
i obey," 



G ERA I NT A. YD ENID. 



309 



And Enid answei'd, "Yea, my lord, I 

know 
Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot see: 
Then not to give you warning, that seems 

hard ; 
Almost beyond me: yet I would obey." 

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not too wise; 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not quite mismated with a yawning clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head and 

yours. 
With eyes to find you out however far, 
And ears to hear you even in his dreams." 

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly 
at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil; 
And that within her, which a wanton fool, 
Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten 

broad, 
Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the 

Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she saw 

him ride 
More near by many a rood than yestermorn, 
It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Oeraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should say 
" Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart 

again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade. 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof 
.Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest. 
And yet to give him warning, for he rode 
As if he heard not, moving l)ack she held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. . 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
Because she kept the letter of his word 
Was in the manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
And in the moment after, wild Limours, 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking 
storm, 



Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 
And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, 

and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm be- 
yond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd (,r 

dead , 
And overthrew the next that follow'd liin>. 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout behincL 
I'.ut at the flash and motion of the man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shi a! 
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on tlie 

sand. 
But if a man who stands upon the brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower. 
So, scared but at the motion of the man. 
Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way; 
So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Ge- 
raint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt.with the fliers. " Horse and man," 

he said, 
" All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and with 

arms; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: 
And so what say ye, shall we strip him 

there 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough 
To bear his armor? shall we fast, or dine? 
No? — then do you, being right honest, 

pray 
That we may meet the Jiorsemen of Earl 

Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus he said: 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not one word, she led the 

way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death; 
[So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 



310 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



!ii combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass. 
The Prince, without a word, from his horse 
fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his 

arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering 

sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear 

lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her, 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower: 
Une took him for a victim of Earl iJdorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse 

song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless eyes. 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in his 

fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel. 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved like 

a man. 



But at the point of noon the huge Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet 

beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey. 
Came riding with a hundred langes up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a shiji, 
Cried out witli a big voice, " WHiat, is 

dead ? " 



No, no, not dead! " she answer'd in all 

haste. 
" Would some of your kind people take him 

up. 

And bear him hence out of this cruel sun: 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm; " Well, if he be 

not dead, 
Wliy wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool; 
Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or 

not, 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : 
And if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, 
A noble one." 

He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who ad- 
vanced. 
Each growling like a dog, when his good 

bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, 
Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians 

growl'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
Their chance of booty from the morning's 

raid; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, 
Such as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded: laid him 

on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and took 
And bore l]im to the naked hall of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unledj 
And cast him and the bier in which he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall. 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead 

man, 
And their own Earl, and their own soids, 

and her. 
They might as well have blest her: she 

was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 



So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, 
There in the naked hall, propping his head, 



CERAIX'J- AND ENID. 



3" 



And chafing his pale hands, and calling toiCJod's curse, it makes me mad to see you 

him. I weep. 

And at the last he waken'd from his swoon, Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your 



And found his own dear bride propping 

his head, 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to 

him; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his 

face; 
And said to his own heart, "she v/eeps for 

me"; 



good man. 
For were I dead who is it would weep for 

me? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath, 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in your cheek. 
There is not one among my gentlewomen 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 



And yet lay still, and feign'd himself asjBut listen to me, and by me be ruled, 



dead. 



j And I will do the thing I have not done. 



That he might prove her to the uttermost,] For you shall share my earldom with me. 



And say to his own heart, " she weeps for 
me." 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the 

hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise: 
Each hurling down a heap of things that 

rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, 
And doff'd his helm: and then there flut- 

ter'd in. 
Half bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues. 
And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl 

Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against the 

board 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his 

spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and quar 

ter beeves. 
And all the hall was dim with steam ot 

flesh 
And none spake word, but all sat down at 

once. 
And ate with tumult in the nake#hall, 
P'eeding like horses when you hear them 

feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself. 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe 
But when Eail Doorm had eaten all he 

wi^uld. 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she 

wept : 
And out of her there came a power upon 

him; 
And rising on the sudden he said, " Eat! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 



girl; 

And we will live like two birds in one nest, 
And I will fetch you forage from all fields. 
For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke: the brawny spearman let his 

cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 

turning stared; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent 

long had drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd 

leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's 

ear 
What shall not be recorded — women they, 
Women, or what had been those gracious 

things, 
But now desired the humbling of their 

best. 
Yea, would have helped him to it: and all 

at once 
They hated her, who took no thought of 

them. 
But answer'd in low voice, her meek head 

yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of your courtesy, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her 
speak. 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously, 
Assumed that she had thanked him, add- 
ing, " you, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." 

She answer'd ^eekly, " How should I 
be glad 
Henceforth in all the world at anything, 
Until my lord arise and look upon me? " 



312 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Here the huge Earl cried out upon her 

talk, 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on 

her, 
And bare her by main violence to the 

board. 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 

««Eat." 

"No, no," said Enid, vext, "I will not 

eat. 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 
And eat with me." " Drink, then," he 

answer'd. "Here!" 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it' to 

her,) 
" Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, 

or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can 

eat: 
Drink therefore and the wine will change 

your will." 

" Not so," she cried, " by Heaven, I will 
not drink. 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it. 
And drink with me; and if he rise no more 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced his 
hall. 

Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at last; 
" Girl, for I see ye scorn, my courtesies. 
Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail 

for one. 
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my wish, 
TJiat I forbear you thus: cross me no more. 
At least put off to please me tliis poor gown. 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully: 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here. 
How gay, how suited to the house of one. 
Who loves that beauty should go beauti- 
fully! 
Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: 
obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentle- 
women 
Display'd a splendiil silk of foreign loom, 



Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down the 

front 
With jewels than the sward with drops of 

dew. 
When all night long a cloud clings to the 

hill. 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the 

gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
Than hardest tyYants in their day of power. 
With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 
And now their hour has come; and Enid 
said: 

" In this poor gown my dear lord found 
me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
In this poor gown I rode with him to court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : 
In tliis poor.gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd: 
And this poor gown I will not caste aside 
Until himself arise a living man. 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: 
I never loved, can never love but him: 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and down 
his hall. 
And took his russet beard between his teeth; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; 
Take my salute," unkniglitly with flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, "he had not dared 

to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord was dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry. 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap. 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the 

wootl. 

This heard Ceraint, and grasping at his 

sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield,) 
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep 

of it 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



313 



Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and 

fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said: 

" Enid, I have used you worse than that 
dead man; 
Done you more wrong : we both have under- 
gone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your 

own ; 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt 
And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester- 

morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard you 

say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: 
I do believe yourself against yourself, 
And will henceforward rather die than 
doubt." 



And Enid could not say one tender word. 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: 
She only prayed him, " Fly, they will re- 
turn 
And slay you: fly, your charger is without. 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall you 

ride 
Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, " let us 

go." 
And moving out they found the stately horse. 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief. 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, 
Neigh'd witli all gladness as they came, and 

stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the piir: and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
Glad also; then Cicraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his 

foot 
She set her own and climb'd; he turn'd his 

face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her 

arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew. 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous 

hour 



Put hand to hand beneath her husband's 

heart, 

And felt him hers again: she did not weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden 

green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain: 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes 
As not to see before them on the path. 
Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his 

lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, 
She, with her mind all full of what had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, " Slay not a dead 
man! " 
The voice of Enid," said the knight; 
but she. 
Beholding it was Edyrn,son ofNudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd 

again, 
< O cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life." 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake ; 
'< My lord Geraint, I greet you with all 

love; 
I took you for a jjandit knight of Doorm; 
Andfearnot, Enid, I should fall upon him, 
Who love you, Prince, with something of 

the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to 

Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I my- 
self 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 
King." 



" He hears the judgment of the King of 
j Kings," 

! Cried the wan Prince; " and lo the powers 
: of Doorm 

I Arc scattered," and he pointed to the field. 



314 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Where, luiJdlcd here aiul there on mound 

and knoll, I 

Were men and women staring and aghast, 
While some yet fled; and then he plainlier 

told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his 

hall. 
But when the knight besought him, •' Fol- 
low me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own 

ear 
Speak what has chanced; ye surely have 

endured 
Strange chances here alone;" that other 

Hush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply. 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd: 
Till Edyrn crying, "If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you," 
"Enough," he said, " I follow," and they 

went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, ; 

One from the bandit scatter'd in the field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and 

then, I 

When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side. 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, | 
From which old fires have broken, men 

may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 

" Fair and dear cousin, you that most 

had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause to 

make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
Break into furious flame; being repulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturn'd him; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair. 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: 
And, hvA. for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that sometime you would 

come 



To these my lists with hi)n whom liest you 

loved; 
And there, poor cousin, with your meek 

blue eyes. 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd heaven. 
Behold me overturn and trample on him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to 

me, 
I should not less have killVl him. And 

you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your ow n 

true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
My proud self, and my purpose three years 

old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
There was I broken down; there was I 

saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the 

life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid upon 

me 
Was but to rest awhile witliin her court; 
Where first as sullen as a Ijeast new-caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, I 

found. 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn. 
Such fine reserve and 'noble reticence. 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former life. 
And find that it had been the wolf's indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, 
Which, when it weds with manhood, makes 

a man. 
And you were often there about the Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw; 
Nor did I care or dare to .speak with you. 
But kept myself aloof till I was changed; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed." 

He spuke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, 
There most in those who most have done 

them ill. 
And when they reach 'd the camp the King 

himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



5t5 



F.ul went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and return'd, 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother- 
like. 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her, 



His work was neither great nor wonderful, 
And past to Enid's tent; and tliither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt; 
And Enid tended on him there; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the 
breath 



And glancing for a minute, till he saw her:Of her sweet tendance hovering over him. 
Pass into it, turnVl to the Prince, and said: jFill'd all the genial courses of his blood 

AVith deeper and with ever deeper love, 
' Prince, when of late ye pray'd me for I As the south-west that blowing Bala lake 



my leave 
To move to your own land, and there de- 
fend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some re- 
proof. 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be. 
By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated hands, 
Not used mine own: but now behold me 

come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all my 

realm. 
With Edyrn and with others : have ye look'd 
At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly 

changed? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents : 
And this wise world of om-s is mainly right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him everyway 
One of the noblest, our most valorous,- 
''Sanest and most obedient: and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousandfold more great and wonderful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking hi.s 

life. 
My subject with my subjects under him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to the 
death." 



So spake the King; 
Prince, and felt 



low bow'd llie 



Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt. 
The blameless King went forth and cast his 

eyes 

On each of all whom Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King: 
Pie look'd and found them wanting; and as 

now 
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire 

hills 

To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, 
He rooted out'the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at 

wrong, 
And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand 

men 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law. 
And broke the bandit holds and cleansed 

the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, 

they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon U.sk. 
There the great Queen once more embraced 

her friend. 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which he 

took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed 

upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own land. 
And there he kept the justice of the King- 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: 
And being ever foremost in the chase. 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great Prince and man 

of men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies lr»ved hj call 



3i6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good; and in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraint'; 
Of times to be; nor did he doubt her-more 



But rested in her fealty, till he crovvn'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 
A STORM was coming, but the winds werejTuin red or pale, would often when they 



still, 



met 



And in the wild woods of Broceliande, |Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
Before an oak, so hollow huge and old i^Vith such a fixt devotion, that the old man 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, The' doubtful, felt the tiattery, and at times 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. j Would flatter his own wish in age for love, 

I And half believe her true: for thus at times 

., ,^. . , ^ . 1 , ^ 'He waver'd; but that other clung to him, 

The wilv \ ivien stole from Arthur's court: „. . ■ , -i, , .-, ° 

ijicMiij' >nii.iioi^j Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 

She hated all the knights, and heard in „, - ,, ,. 4. i i i 

one iidLLu ail iiiv. ivii ,3 , , Then fell upon him a great melancholy; 

tnougnt iAnd leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the 



beach; 

There found a little boat, and stept into it; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail; the boat 



Their lavish comment when her name was 

named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all alone 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 

Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair 1 1^,^,,^ ,,.^^5, a sudden wind across the deeps, 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy I ^^^ touching Breton sands, they disem- 

mood bark'd 

With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken] ^^^ ^j^^^ ^j^^^^^,^^^,^ j^j^^^;^ ^^j ^j^^ ^^^^^ 

voice, , , , ' Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 

And flutter'd adoration, and at last , ^^^ j^j^^jj^ ^^^^ j^^^ ^^j^ ^^^ ^^ ^ ^^ 

With dark sweet hints of some who prized .^.^^ ^^^.^^ .^^^^ ^^,^_^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ 

mm iiioi^ . , . , .11 iWith woven paces and with waving arms, 

Than who should prize him most: at which r^, '^ , , j*^, , ,. 

' o i^ , The man so wrought on ever seem d to he 

,, , e ving i Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, 

Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by:^ u- -u r 

t; ^ , , 1 ,j J 1 1 ^t, iji,- ^rrom which was no escape for evermore; 



But one had watch'd, snd had not held his 

peace 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 



And none could find that man for evermore. 
Nor could he see but him who wrought the 
charm 



That Vivien should attempt the blameless r- • j • 1 i. i j j 

. ^ I Coming and going, and he lay as dead 

. "^^' , , , ,r ^ And lost to life and use and name and 



And after that, she set herself -to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those 
times. 



fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time,- 



Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, ^'^ r„ ,; „ ,1, f i, i u 1 ^ 

TT J i_ -1. .1 T-- I.- I, u- ; As fancying that her glory would be great 

Had built the King his havens, ships, and . ^^_. n.-L ^° ,- , u u 

, ,. ^ ' r ' Accoiding to his greatness whom she 

Was also Bard, and knew the starry heav-' ■'■ 



ens; 



The people call'd him "Wizard; whom at first j There lay she all her length and kiss'd his 



She play'd about with slight and sprightly 

talk 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points 



feet, 

As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe 



Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; Of samite without price, that more exprest 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Than hid her, clung about her lisson.e limbs, 
Would watch her at her petulance, and play. In color like the satin-shining palm 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, and laugh On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 
As those that watch a kitten; that he grew And while she kiss'd them, crying, "Trample 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and she,! me. 

Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the 
Began to break her sports with graver fits, I world, 

(317) 



li8 



IDYLLS OF THE ICING. 



And I will pay you worship; tread inc down 
And I will kiss you for it"; he was mute: 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain, 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long sea- 
hall 
In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me?" and again, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me?" and once more, 
"Great Master, do ye love me?" he was 

mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel. 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and 

sat. 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his neck. 
Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf. 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 
Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, 
Not looking at her, " who are wise in love 
Love most, say least," and Vivien answer'd 

quick, 
" 1 saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: 
But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it; let me think 
Silence is wisdom: I am silent then 
And ask no kiss "; then adding all at once, 
•' And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom," 

drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her neck and bosom to lier knee. 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd her- 
self. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly smiled: 
" To what request for what strange boon," 

he said, 

"Are tliese your pretty tricks and fooleries, 

;0 Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks. 

For these have broken up my melancholy." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
" What, O my Master, have ye found your 

voice? 
I bid the stranger welcome. Tlianks at 

last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
I'Acept indeed to drink: no cup had we: 



In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from the 

cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And offer'd you it kneeling: then ye drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor 

word; 
O no more thanks than might a goat have 

given 
With no more sign of reverence than a 

beard. 
And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to sv/ooning, and ye lay 
Foot-gilt witlr all the blossom-dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you 

know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before her 

own ? 
And yet no thanks: and all thro' this wild 

wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you: 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so 

strange — 
How had I wrong'd you? surely you are 

wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and 

said; 
" O did you never lie upon the shore. 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming 

wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You foUow'd me 

unask'd; 
And when I look'd, and saw you following 

still, , 

My mind involved yourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon 

me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the 

world. 
My use and name and fame. Your par- 
don, child. 
Yom- pretty sports have bnghten'd all 

again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you 

thrice J 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



319 



Once for wrong done you by confusion, 

next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gambols: wherefore 

ask; 
And take this boon so strange and not so 

strange." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully; 
" O not so strange as my long asking it. 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange. 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of 

yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did me 

wrong, 
The people call you prophet: let it be: 
But not of those that can expound them 

selves. 
Take Vivien for expounder; she will call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom of 

yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than your- 
self. 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love. 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when you saw me following you. 
Must make me fear still more you are not 

mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to prove 

you mine. 
And make me wish still more to learn this 

charm 
(^f woven paces and of waving hands. 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both to 

rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon your 

fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you 

mine. 
And therefore be as great as you are named, 
Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and hov\' denyingly! 
O, if you think this wickedness in me. 
That I should prove it on you unawares. 
To make you lose your use and name and 

fame, 
That makes me most indignant; then our 

bond 



Had best be loosed for ever: but think or 

not. 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean 

truth. 
As clean as blood of babes, as white as 

milk: 

O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 
Mav this hard earth cleave to the Nadir 

hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip mc 

flat. 
If I he such a traitress. Yield my boon. 
Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish. 
The great proof of your love : because I 

think. 
However wise, ye hardly know me yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers 

and said, 
" I never was less wise, however wise. 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust. 
Than v/hen I told you first of such a charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this. 
Too much I trusted, when I told you that. 
And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd 

man 
Thro' woman the first hour; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well. 
Who have to learn themselves and all the 

world. 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised, when I spell the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it vice: 
But since you name yourself the summer fly, 
I well coidd wish a cobweb for the gnat. 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness: 
But since I will not>yield to give you power 
Upon my life and use and name and fame. 
Why will you never ask some other boon? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted 

maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile. 
Made answer, either eyelid wet Avith tears. 
"Nay, master, be not wrathful with your 

maid; 
Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another boon. 



IDYLLS OF THE ICING. 



I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of 'trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be 
ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's lute 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

' It is not worth the keeping: let it go: 
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

O master, do ye love my tender rhyme? " 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her 
true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face. 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly 

" Far other was the song that once I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: 
For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden 

horns. 
It was the time when first the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to Ije, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest of 

us, 
We could not keep him silent, out heflash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron -clashing close. 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl to- 
gether, 
And should have done it; but the beauteous 

beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet. 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land; and all day long we 
rode 



Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our cars, 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, 

and cry, 
' Laugh, little well, 'but touch it with a sword. 
It buzzes wildly round the point; and there 
We lost him; such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet 

rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm, 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and 

fame." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully; 
" O mine have ebb'd away for evermore, 
And all thrc' following you to this wild wood. 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 
1^0 now, what hearts have men! they never 

mount 
As high as woman in her selfless mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my 

song, 
Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — 

this: 

' My name, once mine, now thine, is close- 

lier mine. 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were 

thine. 
And shame, could shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" Says she not well? and there is more — 

this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls were 

spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls; 
' Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes 

to love.' 
True: Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, 

carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, 



MERLIN AXD VIVIEN. 



?2I 



Tiic Fame that follows death is nothing to 

us: 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness? you 

yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, 
And since you seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all 

Vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and 

said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who sat 

alone, 
Had carved himself a knightly shield ot 

wood, 

And then was painting on it fancied arms. 
Azure, an Eagle rising or the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll ' I follow fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graft". 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than fame.' 
You should have seen him blush; but after- 
wards 
He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love me 

well; 
Forme, I love you somewhat; rest: and 

Love 

Should have some rest and pleasure in him- 
self. 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 
Too prurient for a proof against the grain 
Uf him you say you love : but Fame with 

men, 
Being but ampler means to serve mankind 
Should have small rest or pleasure in her 

self. 
But work as vassal to the larger love, 
That dwarfs the pretty love of one to one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my 

boon! 
What other? for men sought to prove me 

vile, 
Because I wish'd to give them greater 

minds : 
And then did Envy call me Devil's son 
The sick weak beast seeking to help herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her own 

heajrt. 



Sweet were the days when I was all un- 
known. 
But when my name was lifted up, the 

storm 
Broke on the mountain and I cared nut for 

it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half-dis- 
fame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame. 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague. 
The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 
I cared not for it: a single misty star. 
Which is the second in aline of stars 
That seem a sw-ord beneath a belt of three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I 

fear. 
Giving you power upon me thio' this 

charm, 
That you might play me falsely, having 

power, 
However well you think you love me now 
(As sons of kings loving in pupilage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to 

power) 
I rather dread the loss of use than fame; 
If you — and not so much from wickedness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mot>d 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 
To keep me all to your own self, or else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy, — 
Should try this charm on whom you say 
you love." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in wrath. 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; 
And being found take heed of \'ivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfailh; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may merit 

well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 

1 well believe that all about this world 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Ye cage a buxom captive here and there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape for evermore." 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd 

her. 
" Full many a love in loving youth was mine, 
1 needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth and love; and that full heart oi 

yours 
Whereof you prattle, may now assure you 

mine; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought 

it first. 
The wrist is parted from the hand that 

waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will ye hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 

"There lived a king in the most Eastern 

East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. 
Whose bark had plundered twenty name 

less isles; 
And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among them all, 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her 

ofi". 
With loss of half his people arrow-slain; 
A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, 
They said a light came from her when siie 

moved : 
And since the pirate would not yield her up, 
The Kmg impaled him for his piracy; 
Then made her (^ueen: but those isle-nur- 

tur'd eyes 
Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 
On all the youth, they sicken'd; councils 

thinn'd. 
And armies waned, for magnet-like she 

drew 
The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; 
And beasts themselves would worship; 

camels knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 

back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd black 

knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent 

hands, 



To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he 

sway'd 

To find a wizard who might teach the King 
Some charm, which being wrought upon 

the Queen 
Might keep her all his own: to such a one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, the 

King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by 

it 
To keep the list low and pretenders back. 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the city 

gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the 

charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own: 
And many a wizard brow bleached on the 

walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers." 



And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: 
" I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks. 
Your tongue has trijjt a little: ask yourself. 
The lady never made iinivuling\\2i\' 
With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure 

in it. 
And made her good man jealous with good 

cause.. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel 

then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink. 
Or make her paler .with a poison'd rose? 
Well, those were not our days : but did they 

find 
A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee?" 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm round 
his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her 
eyes 




" He saw two cities in a thousand coats 

All fighting for a woman on the sea. 

And pus/ling his Hack craft among them all. 

He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off." 

Merlin and Vivien, Page 322. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



323 



Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's; For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 

^Vith each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty- 
fold. 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep. 



On her new lord, her own, the tirsl of men 
Nay, not like to 



Heanswer'd laughin 
me. 
At last they found — his foragers for charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; 
Read but one book, and ever reading grew 
So grated down and filed away with thought. 
So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the 

skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and 

spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh. 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting 

men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 
And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, powers 
And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving rain. 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine-wood 

roar'd. 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, 

sunn'd 

The world to peace again : here was the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to the 

King. 
And then he taught the King to charm the 

Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see her 

more. 
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought 

the charm. 
Coming and going, and she lay as dead. 
And lost all use of life: but when the King 
Made proffer of the league of golden mines, 
The province with a hundred miles of coast. 
The palace and the princess, that old man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived on 

grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came down to 

me." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily; 
" Vou have the book: the charm is written 

in it: 
Good: take my counsel: let me know it at 

once: 



I yet should strike upon a sudden means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame me 
then?" 

And smiling as a Master smiles at one 
That is not of his school, norany school 
But that were blind and naked Ignorance 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, 
On all things all day long; he answer'd her: 

'■Yoii read the book, my pretty Vivien! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; 
And every square of text an awful charm. 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their flanks— j'fw read the 

book! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and 

cvamm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye; but the long sleepless 

nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I; 
And none can read the comment but my- 

.self; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple; a mere child 
Might use it to the haim of any one, 
And never could undo it: ask no more: 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me, 
But keep that oath you swore, you might, 

perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because you dream they babble of 

you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : 
" W.hat dare the full-fed liars say of me? 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in 

horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 



324 



IDYLLS OF THE KLYG. 



But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for 

shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me : 

swine!" 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her 

words. 
" Ye breathe but accusation vast and vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye 

know. 
Set up the charge ve know, to stand or 

fall!" 

And Vivien answer'd frowning wrath- 

fully. 
" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his 

wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant 

lands; 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 
Not two but three: there lay the reckling, 

one, 
But one hour old! What said the happy 

sire? 
A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused his 

fatherhood." 

Then answer'd Merlin " Nay, I know the 

tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from 

his wife: 
One child they had: it lived with her: she 

died: 
His kinsman travelling on his own affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring home 

the child, 
lie brought, not found it therefore: take 

the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man? ' to pluck the tlower in 

season'; 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no treason.' 
O Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 

hour?" 

And Merlin answer'd " Overquick are 
you 
To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the 
wing 



Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey 
Is man's good name: he never wrong'd his 

bride. 
I know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 

room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door 
And darkling felt the sculptured ornament 
That wreathen round it made it seem his 

own; 
And wearied out made for the couch and 

slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless maid; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely 

down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
Me rose without a word and parted from 

her : 
But when the thing was blazed about the 

court, 
The brute world howling forced them into 

bonds. 
And as it chanced they are happy, being 

pure." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " that were likely 
too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he wrought. 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of 

Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves. 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead!" 

vVnd Merlin answer'd careless of her 
charge, 

" A sober man is Percivale and pure; 

But once in life was fluster'd with new 
wine, 

Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 

Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 

And meant to stamp him with her master's 
mark; 

And that he sinn'd, is not believable; 

For, look upon his face! — but if he sinn'd, 

The sin that practice burns into the blood, 

And not the one dark hour which brings 
remorse, 

Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



325 



Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'cl out, or have ye 

more?" 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in 

wrath; 
" O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend? 
Traitor or true? that commerce with the 

Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner? do vtni know 

it ?" 

To which he answer'd sadly, "Yea, I 

know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 
To fetch her, and she took him for the 

King; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. 
But have you no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless 

man? 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling 

laugh ; 
" Him? is he man at all, who knows and 

winks? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and 

winks ? 
By which the good king means to blind 

himself. 
And Idinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood 

earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all theii 

crime; 
Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, 

and fool." 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, 

said; 
" O true and tender! O my liege and king! 
O selfless man and stainless gentleman. 
Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness 

fain 
Have all men true and leal, all women pure; 
How, in the mouths of base interpreters, 
From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and foul 
As the poach'd filth that floods the middle 

street, 
Is thy white blamelessness accounted 

blame! " 



But Vivien deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her 

tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest names. 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor (Jalahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and 

made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes. 
And mutter'd in himself, "tell /■(-;- the charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not, 
So will she rail. What did the wanton say? 
' Not mount as high '; we scarce can sink as 

low: 
For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven and 

Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends of old; 
All brave, and many generous, and some 

chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss with 

lies; 
I well believe she tempted them and fail'd, 
Being so bitter: for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With colors of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of times 
Face-flatterers and backbiters are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute a 

crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves. 
Wanting the mental range; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the 

plain. 
To leave an equal baseness; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note. 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small. 
Inflate themselves with some insane delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual 

fire. 
And touching other worlds. I am weary 

of her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in wMs- 
pers part, 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat and chin. 



326 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



But Vivien.gathering somewhat of his mood, 
And hearing " harlot " mutter'd twice or 

thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death! 
White was her cheek; sharp breaths of 

anger puffd 
Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her 

belt, 
And feeling; had she founds dagger there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him; but she found 

it not: 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken with 

sobs. 

"O crueller than was ever told in tale. 
Or sung in song! O vainly lavish'd love! 

cruel, there was nothing wild or strange. 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame in love, 
So love be true, and not as yours is — nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 
Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her 

crime. 
All — all — the wish to prove him wholly 
hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt her 

hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said: 
"Stabbed through the heart's affections to 

the heart! 
Seethed like the kid in its own mother's 

milk! 
Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! 

1 thought that he was gentle, being great: 

God, that I had loved a smaller man! 

1 should have found in him a greater heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 
The knights, the court, the king, dark in 

your light, 
Who love to make men darker than they are. 
Because of that high pleasure which I had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so flowery to 

me, 
With you for guide and master, only you. 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, 



And ending in a ruin — nothing left. 
But into some low cave to crawl, and there. 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." 



She paused, she turn'd away, she hung 

her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the 

braid 

Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker toward the 

storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm "and having no re- 
ply- 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching 

terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, 
And as the cageling newly flown returns, 
The s'eeming-injured simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled 

there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his 

knees. 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid 

yet, 

About her, more in kindness than in love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose. 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd. 
Upright and flush'd before him: then she 
said: 

" There must be now no passages of lov\ 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore. 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd. 
What should be granted which your own 

gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better Jiavt 

died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make 

me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often asked in vain ! 
How justly, after that vile term of yours, 
I find with grief! I might believe you then, 



MERLIX AND VIVIEN. 



527 



Who knows? once more. Lo ! what was once 

to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown 
The vast necessity of heart and Hfe. 
Farewell; think kindly of me, for I fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth I 

For one so old, must be to love you still. 
But ere I leave you let me swear once more 
That if I schemed against your peace in 

this. 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, 

send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, may 

make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceas'd, when out oi 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above them) 

struck, 
P'urrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of the 

wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his eyes 

and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' the 

gloom. 
But \'ivien, fearing heaven had heard her 

oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering cracks 

and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying out, 
" O Merlin', tho' you do not love me, save. 
Yet save me!" clung to him and hugg'd 

him close; 
And call'd him dear protector in her fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 



But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him 

close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colors, li-ke an opal warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: 
She shook from fear, and for her fault she 

wept 
Of petulancy; she call'd him lord and liege, 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love 
Of her whole life; and ever overhead 
Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 
Snapt in the rushing oi the river rain 
Above them; and in change of glare and 

gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent. 
Moaning and calling out of other lands. 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet once 

more 
To peace; and what should not have been 

had been. 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, and 

slept. 

• 
Then, in one moment, she put forth the 
charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

Then crying " I have made his glory 
mine," 
And shrieking out " O fool ! " the harlot leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd " fool." 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to the east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; 
Which first she placed where morning's 

earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with the 

gleam; 

Then fearing rust or soilure ^ashion'd for it 
A ca^e of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower, 
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day 
Leaving her household and good father 

climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her 

door, 
Stript oft' the case, and read the naked 

shield, 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a swsrd had beaten in it. 
And every scratch a lance had made upon it, 
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is 

fresh ; 
That ten years back; this dealt him at 

Caerlyle; 
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot: 
And ah God's mercy what a stroke was 

there ! 
And here a thrust that might have kill'd, 

but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his en- 
emy down, 
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good 

shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his 

name? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts. 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by tha: 

name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the 

prize. 

For Arthur long before they crown'd him 
king, 
(32S3 



Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black 

tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain side: 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 
And fought together; but their names were 

lost. 
And each had slain his brother at a blow, 
And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd: 
And there they lay till all their bones were 

bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags: 
And he, that once was king, had on a crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and 

the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull 

the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, 

and civught, 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs " Lo, thou likewise shalt 

be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them 

to his knights, 
Saying " these jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's not the 

king's— 
For public use : henceforward let there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of these: 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must 

learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
Ir use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The Heathen, who, some say, shall rule 

the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he 

spuke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had been, 

and still 



LANCELOT AND ELALXE. 



529 



Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
\Vlien all were won; but meaning all at 

once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken 

word. 



Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere 
" Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot 

move 
To these fair jousts?" " Yea, lord," she 

said, "ye know it." 
" Then will ye miss," he answer'd, " the 

great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists 
A sight ye love to look on." And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the 

King. 

He thinking that he read her meaning there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more 
Than many diamonds," yielded, and a 

heart. 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make com- 
plete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and 

say, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly 

whole. 
And lets me from the saddle"; and the 

King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went 

his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began. 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much 

to blame. 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the 

knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, ' Lo the shameless ones, who 

lake 



Their pastime now the trustful king is 

gone! ' " 
Then Lancelot ve.\t at having lied in vain: 
" Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me 

first. 
Then of the crowd ye look no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. 
When its own voice clings to each blade of 

grass. 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men: many a bard, without offence. 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty: and our knights at 

feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the 

king 
Would listen smiling. How then? is there 

more? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would your- 
self. 
Now weary of my service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?" 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless 

King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? 
He never spake word of reproach to me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 
He cares not for me: only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 

eyes; 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with 

him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible. 
To make them like himself: but, friend, to 

me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all; 
For who loves me must have a touch of 

earth ; 
The low sun makes the color: I am yours. 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by thebond. 
And therefore hear my words: go to the 

jousts: 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our 

dream 
When sweetest; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but ihcy 

sting." 



330 



IDYLLS OF THE KJXG. 



Then aiiswcrM Lancelot, llie cliief of 

kniglits. 
" And with what face, after my pretext 

made, 
Shall I appear, C) Queen, at Camelot, I 
]?efore a king who honors his own word, 
As if it were his (Jod's?" 

" \'ea,'' said the Queen, 
"A moral child wiliioul the craft to rule, 
Else had he not lost me: but listen to me. 
If I must find you wit: we hear it said 
That men go dcnvn before your spear at a 

touch ' I 

But knowing you are Lancelot; your great 

name. 
This conquers: hide it therefore; go un- 
known ; 
Win! by this kiss you will: and our true 

king 
Will then allow youi- pretext, C) jny knight, 
As all for glory; for to speak him true, 
Ve know right well, how meek soe'er he 

seem, 
Xo keener hunter after glory breathes, 
lie loves it in his knights more than himself: 
They prove to him his work : win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known, 
He left the barren -beaten thoroughfare, 
Chose the green path that show'd the rarer 

foot. 
And there among the solitary downs, 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadcjw'd track. 
That all in loops and links among the dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made and wound the gateway 

horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled 

man. 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
Aiul Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless 

man ; 
And issuing found the Lord of Astolat, 
With two strong sons. Sir. Torre and Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the castle court; 
And close behind them stept the lily maid 
Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house 
There was not : some light jest among them 

rose 
With laughter dying down asthe great knight 
Approach'd them : then the Lord of Astolat. 



"Whence comest thou, my guest, and by 

what name 
Livest between the lips? for by thy state 
And presence I might guess thee chief of 

those, , 

After the king, who eat in .Vrlhur's halls. 
Ilim have I seen : the rest, his Table Rcnuid, 
Known as they arc, to me they are un- 
known." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights. 
" Known am I, and of .Vrthur's hall, and 

known, 
What 1 by mere mischance have brought, 

my shield. 
Hut since 1 go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not. 
Hereafter ytni shall \<\ww me — and the 

.shield— 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not 

mine." 

Then saitl the L(jrd of Astolat, " Here 

is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, .Sir Torre. 
And so, CJod wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His ye can have." Then added plain Sir 

Torre, 
" \'ea since I cannot use it, ye may have it." 
Here laugh'd tin; father saying " l''ie. Sir 

Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight? 
Allow him: but Lavaine, my younger here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an 

hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as wilful as before." 

" Nay, iatiiei', nay good father, shame 
ini' not 
I'iclnrc tliis riiiljlc knight" said young La- 
vaine 
" For nothing. .Surely I 1 ut play'd on 

'I'orre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go: 
A jest, no more: for, knight, the maiden 

dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was loo slippery to be held. 
And slijjt and fell into some pool orstream, 
The castle-well, belike; and then I said 
That if I went and if \ fought and won it 



/. .7 , \ ■ ( !■: LOT A \ 'D EL AI.\ 'E. 



:->},^ 



(Bui all was jcsl ami joke aniuii}; uurselves) 
Then imist she keep itsafelier. All was jest. 
But father give me leave, and if he will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

" .So ye will grace me," answcr'd Lanee- 

I'ot, 
Smiling a moment, " with yuui- fellowsliip 
D'er these waste downs whereon I lost mv- 

self, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and 

friend; 
And you shall win this diamond — as I hear, 
It is a fair large diamond, — if ye may, 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will." 
" A fair large diamond," added plain Sir 

Torre, 
" Such be for Queens and not for simjile 

maids." 
Then she, who hekl her eyes upon the 

ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so lost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at 

her, 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus retuin'd. 
" If what is fair be but for what is fair. 
And only (Queens are to be counted so. 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem 

this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd, 
I^ifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 
The great and guilty love he bare the 

Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord. 
Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his 

time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one, 
The flower of all the west and all the world. 
Had been the sleeker for it: but in him 
His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 
And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul. 
Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest 

man, 
That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 
However marr'd, of more than twice her 

years, 



Seam'd with an ancient swordcul on the 

cheek. 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her 

eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was 

her doom. 

Then the great knight, the dailing of the 

court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
.Stept with all grace, and not with half di>- 

dain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
15ut kindly man moving among his kind: 
Whom they with meats and vintage of their 

best 
And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table 

Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guine- 
vere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man. 
Heard from the liaron that, ten years before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his 

tongue. 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce 

design 
Against my house, and him they caught 

and maim'd; 
But I my sons and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the 

woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur 

broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill." 

"() there, great Lord, doubtless," La- 

vaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and s-udden j)assion of 

youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have 

fought. 
C) tell us — for we live apart — y(ju know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot 

spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the tight which all day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent 

(ilem; 
And in the four wild battles by the shore 
Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war 
That tluinder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 
Of Celidon the forest; and again 



332 



IDYLLS OF THE I^ING. 



By castle Gurnion where the glorious King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald, center'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

white Horse 
Set every gdded parapet shuddering; 
And up in Agned Cathregonion too. 
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath 

Treroit 
Where many a heathen fell; "and on the 

mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him. 
And break them; and I saw him, after, 

stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood. 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried 
' They are broken, they are broken' for the 

King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he 

laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid 
" Save your great self, fair lord"; and 

when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 
Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that when the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature: and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 
And all night long his face before her lived. 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest; so the face before her lived, 



r(jse, half-cheated in the 
to sweet La- 



Till rathe she 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell 

vaine. 

First as in fear, step after step, she stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the 

court, 
"This shield, my friend, where is it?" and 

Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, 

and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more 

amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 
The maiden standing in tlie dewy light. 
He had not dream'd she was so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, 
That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 
" Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble 

it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 
My favor at this tourney?" " Nay," said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know me, 

know." 
" Yea, so," she answer'd; " then in wearing 

mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 
That those who know should know you." 

And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his mind, 
And found it true, and answer'd, "true, 

my child. 
Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me: 
What is it?" and she told him " a red sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought it: then 

he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, " I never yet have done so much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with de- 
light; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 



Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence full I Returning brought the yet unblazon'd shield, 
Of noble things, and held her from her|His brother's, which he gave to Lancelot, 
sleep, jWho parted with his own to fair Elaine; 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



333 



" Do me this grace, my child, to have my 

shield 
In keeping till I come." " A grace to me," 
She answer'd, "twice to-day. I am your 

Squire." 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, " Lily 

maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color back; 
Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence 

to bed": 
Sokiss'dher, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd a 

minute. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, and 

there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious 

face 
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 
Paused in the gateway, standing by the 

shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms 

far-off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and took 

the shield. 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past 
away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs. 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a 

knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 

pray'd 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave. 
And cells and chambers: all were fair and 

dry; 
The green light from the meadows under- 
neath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs: 
And in the meadow's tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling show- 
ers. 
And thither wending there that night they 
bode. 

But when the ne,x.t day broke from un- 
derground. 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' the 
cave. 



They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode 

away : 
Then Lancelot saying " hear, but hold my 

name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake," 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own 

praise. 
But left him leave to stammer, " is it in- 
deed?" 
And after muttering " the great Lancelot " 
At last he got his breath and answer'd 

" One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's king of 

kings. 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd 
the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which half 

round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass. 
Until they found the clear-faced King, who 

sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be known. 
Since to his crown the golden dragon clung. 
And down his robe the dragon writhed in 

gold. 
And fiom the carven-work behind him 

crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 
Arms for his chair, while all the rest of 

them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innumer- 
able 
Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 

found 
The new^ design wherein they lost them- 
selves. 
Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: 
And, in the costly canopy o'er him set. 
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless 

king. 
Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine 

and said, 
" Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat. 
The truer lance: but there is many a youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I am 



334 



IDYLLS (.?/" THE A'/XG. 



And overcome it; and in me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-otif touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great: 
There is the man." And Lavaine gaped 

upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew; and then did either 

side. 
They that assail'd, and thev that held the 

lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well per- 
ceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder 

of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker; then he hurl'd 

into it 
Against the stronger: little need to speak 
* )f Lancelot in his glory: King, duke, earl. 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he over- 
threw. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and 

kin, 
Ranged with the Talde Round that held 

the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a sti'anger 

knight 
.Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot; and one said to the other 

"Lo! 
What is he? I do not mean the force alone. 
The grace and versatility of the man — 
Is it not Lancelot?" " When has Lancelot 

worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists? 
Not such his wont, as we, that know him, 

know.'' 
"How then? who then?" a fury seized 

them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
( )f Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their 

steeds and thus, 
Their ]dumes driv'n backward by the wind 

they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North- 
sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, 

with all 



Its stormy crests that smoke against the 

skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark. 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
.Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing, lamed the charger, and a 

spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the 

head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and 

remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worship- 
fully; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where 

he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But thought to do while he might yet en- 
dure. 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kith 

and kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the lists. 
Back to tiie barrier; then the heralds blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the 

sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the 

knights. 
His party, cried "Advance, and take your 

prize 
The diamond "; but he answer'd, " diamond 

me 
No diamonds! for God's love, a little air I 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow me 
not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from 
the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and 

sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " draw the lance- 
head ": 
" Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said La- 
vaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, ye will die." 
But he " I die already with it: draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lan- 
celot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, 
And half his i)lood burst forth, and down 
he sank 



LAXCELOT AXD ELAINE. 



335 



For the pure pain, ami wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit uut and liare Iiini in, 
There slanch'd his wound; and there, in 

daily doubt 
Whetlier to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by the 

grove 
Uf poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, 
x\nd ever-tremuldus aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Laneelot fled tlie 

lists, 
His liarty, kni>^hts of utmost North and 

West, 
Lords of waste marches, kini^s of desolate 

isles, 
Came round their great Pendiagon, sayin 

to him 
" Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we won 

the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his 

prize 
Untaken, crying that his jirize is death."' 
" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that 

such an one. 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelnt— 
He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore 

rise, 
() Gaw^ain, and ride forth and tlnd the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he be 

near. 
I charge you that you get at once to horse 
And, knights and kings, there breathes not 

one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
His prowess \\as too wondrous. We will That men went down before his spear at a 

do him touch, 

No cu.stomaiy honor: since the knight But knowing he was Lancelot; his great 



With smiling face and frowning heart, a 

Prince, 
In tiie mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and 

strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint 
And Gareth, a good knight, but there- 
withal 
Sir Modred's brother, cif a crafty house, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the king':: command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him 

leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights and 
kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking "is it Lancelot who has come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ?" So fear'd the 

King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, re- 

turn'd. 
Then when he saw the (^ueen, embracing 

ask'd, 
" Lord, are you yet so sick?" " Nay, lord," 

she said. 
" And where is Lancelot?" Then the Queen 

amazed 
" Was lie not with you? won he not your 

prize?" 
"Nay, but one like him." " Why that like 

was he." 
And when the King demanded how she 

knew, 
Said " Lord, no sooner had ye parted from 



Came not to us, of us to claim the prize. 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return, 
And bring us where he is and how he fares. 
And cease not from your quest, until ye 
find." 

So saying from the carven flower above. 
To which it made a restless heart, he took, 
And gave, the diamond: then from where 

he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, 



name 
Conquer'd; and therefore would he hide 

his name 
From all men, ev'n the king, and to this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound, 
That he might joust unknown of all, and 

learn 
If his old prowess were in aught" decay'd: 
And added, ' our true Arthur, when he 

learns, 
Will well allcw my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory." " 



33(> 



IDYLLS OF THE A'LVG. 



Then replied the King: 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted nie as he has trusted you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, in- 
deed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot , 
Must needs have moved my laughter: now 

remains 
But little cause for laughter: his own kin — • 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, 

this! 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon 

him; 
So that he went sore wounded from the 

field : 
Vet good news too: for goodly hopes are 

mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great 

pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

"Yea, lord," she said, 
" Your hopes are mine," and saying that 

she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, 
Past to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it. 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the 

palm. 
And shriek'd out " Traitor " to the unhear- 

ing wall. 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again. 
And moved about her palace, proud and 

pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the 

quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar 

grove. 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat: 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid 
(Hancetl at, and cried " What news from 

Camelot, lord? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve?" 

" He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " Hut parted from 

the jousts 



Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her 

breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance 

go; 
Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she 

swoon'd: 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, 

came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not 

find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat " Bide with us, 
And ride no more at random, noble Prince! 
Here was the knight, and here he left a 

sliield; 
This will he send or come for: furthermore 
Our son is with him; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay 'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier? then 

her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd: 
" Well— if I bide, lo! this wild flower for 

me!" 
And oft they met among the garden yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 
Above her, graces of the court, and songs. 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden elo- 
quence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, " Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he Jeft, 
Whence you might learn his name? Why 

slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 
To all the winds?" " Nay, by mine head," 

said he, 
" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes: 
But an ye will it let me see the shield." 
And when the shield was brought, and 

Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with 

gold, 



LAXCELOT AXD ELAIXE. 



337 



Ramp in the iaeld, he binole his tliigh, and 

mock'd ; 
" Right was the King I our Lancelot! that 

true man I'' 
" And riglit was I," she answer'd merrily, 

Who dreani'd my knight the greatest knight 

of all." 
" And if / dream'd," said. Gawain, " that 

you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, you 

know it! 
Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in 

vain?" 
Full simple was her answer " \Vhat know 

I? 
My brethren have been all my fellowship. 
And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so my- 
self— 
I know not if I know what true love is. 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
I know there is none other I can love." 
" Yea, by God's death," said he, " ye love 

him well. 
But would not, knew ye what all others 

know 
And whom he loves." " So be it," cried 

Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved away: 
liut he pursued her calling " Stay a little! 
One golden minute's grace: he wore your 

sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may not 

name? 
Must our true man change like a leaf at 

last? 
Nay — like enough: why then, far he it 

from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let me 

leave 
My quest with you; the diamond also: 

here! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 
From your own hand; and whether he love 

or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 
A thousand times!— a thousand times fare 

well ! 
Vet, if he love, and his love hold, w-e two 

22 



May meet at court hereafter: there, I think, 
.So you will learn the courtesies of the court. 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he 

gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 

went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past; there told 
the King 
What the King knew " Sir Lancelot is the 

knight." 
And added "Sire, my liege, so much I 

learnt; 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all round 
The region: but I lighted on the maid, 
W'hose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and 

to her. 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond: she will render it; 
For by mine head she knows his hiding- 
place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and 
replied, 
" Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more 
(Jn quest "of mine, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but all in 

awe. 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without 

a word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him: 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd 

abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues 

were loosed : 
" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat." 
Some read the King's face, some the Queen's 

and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but 

most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp 

news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before. 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoopi'd 

so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tran- 
quillity. 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder 

flared: 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or 

thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen who 

sat 
With lips severely placid felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet un- 
seen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the 

floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats be- 
came 
As wormwood, and she hated all who 
pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart. 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and 

said, 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now. 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?" 
" Nay," said he, "surely." "Wherefore, 

let me hence," 
She answer'd, "and find out our dear La- 

vaine." 
" Ye will not lose your wits for dear La- 

vaine: 
Bide," answer'd he: " we needs must hear 

anon 
Of him, and of that other." " Ay," she 

said 
" And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he be. 
And with mine own hand give his diamond 

to him. 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest to 

to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of h'msclf. 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid 
The gentler born the maiden, the more 

bound. 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as ye know. 
When these have worn their tokens: let me 

hence 
I pray you." Then her father nodding said, 



"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit you well, my 

child. 
Right fain were I to learn this knight were 

whole, 
Being our greatest: yea, and you must give 

it— 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — 
Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you 

gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away. 
And while she made her ready for her ride. 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to life?" 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers : 
Whom when she saw, " Lavaine," she cried, 

" Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?" He 

amazed, 
"Torre and Elaine ! why here? Sir Lancelot! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?" 
But when the maid had told him all her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his 

moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued 

gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystic- 

Past up the still rich city to his kin. 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; 
And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves: there first she saw the 

casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls 

away, 
Stream'd from it still; and in her heart she 

laugh'd. 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm, 
But meant once more perchance to tourney 

in it. 



LAXCELOT AND ELAINE. 



339 



And when they gainVi the cell wherein he 

slept, 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them 

move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, un- 
shorn, 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roll'd his 

eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, slie started to him„ 

saying 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by the 

King": 
His eyes glisten'd: she fancied "is it for 
me?" 



Thence to the cave; so day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him. 
And likewise many a night: and Lancelot 
\Vould, tho' he call'd his wound a little 

hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at 

times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 
Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid 
Sweetly forebore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child, 
And never woman yet, since man's first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his 

life. 



And when the maid had told him all the tale And the sick man forgot her simple blush, 



Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the 

quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her 

face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
"Alas," he said, "your ride has wearied 

you. 
Rest must you have." "No rest for me," 

she said; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I amat rest." 
What might she mean by that? his large 

black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon 

her, 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in 

mind. 
And being weak in body said no more; 
But did not love the color; woman's love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the 

fields. 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin; 
There bode the night: but woke with dawn, 

and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields, 



Would call her friend and sister, sweet 

Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 
Her parting step, and held her tenderly. 
And loved her with all love except the love 
Of man and woman when they love their 

best 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death~ 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradvenlure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that other 

world 
Another world for the sick man; but now 
The shackles of an oJd love straiten'd him, 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness 

made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not 

live: 
For when the blood ran lustier in him again. 
Full often the sweet image of one face. 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what 

this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her 

sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the fields 



340 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd " vain, in vain: it cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must I die?" 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, " must I 

die ? " 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to 

left. 
And found no ease in turning or in rest; 
And " iiim oi' death" she mutter'd, " death 

or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " him or deatli." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was 

whole, 
To Astolat returning rode tlie three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet 

self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her 

best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for slie 

thought 
"If I be loved, these are my festal robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of him 
Yox her own self or hers; "and do not shun 
To speak the wish most dear to your true 

heart; 
Such service have ye done me, that I make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, 
But like a ghost without the power to speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her 

wish. 
And bode among them yet a little space 
Till he should learn it; and one morn it 

chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews, 
And said, " Delay no longer, speak your 

wish. 
Seeing I must go to-day": tlien out she 

brake ; 
*' Going? and we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word." 
" Speak; that I live to hear," he said, " is 

yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 
"I have gone mad. I love you: let me 

die." 



"Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, "what 

is this?" 
And innocently extending her white arms, 
"Your love," she said, "your love — to be 

your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n to 

.wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: 
But now there never will be wife of mine." 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be 

wife. 
But to be with you still, to see your face. 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' the 

world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the world, 

the world. 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay. 
Full ill then should I quit your brother's 

love. 
And your good father's kindnass." And she 

said 
" Not to be with you, not to see your face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are done." 
" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, " ten 

times nay! 
This is not love: but love's first flash in 

youth. 
Most common: yea I know it of mine own 

self: 
And you yourself will smile at your own self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 
More specially should your good knight be 

poor. 
Endow you with broad land and territory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the 

seas. 
So that would make you happy : furthermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my blood. 
In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake, 
And more than tliis I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blusli'd nor shook, but deathly- 
pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then re- 
plied: 
" Of all this will I nothing "; and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her 

tower. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



341 



Then spake, to wlioiii thro' those black 

walls of yew 
rheir talk had pierced, her father. " Av, a 

flash, 
1 fear me, that will strike my blossom dead, 
■[■oo courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. 
J pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot .said, 
"That were against me: what I can I 

will": 
And there that day remain'd, and toward 

even 
Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the 

maid, 
.Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield : 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the 

stones, 
L'nclasping flung the casement back, and 

look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve 

had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking 

at him. 
And yet he glanced not uj), nor waved his 

hand, 
Xor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
I'his was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat: 
Mis very shield was gone; only the case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. 
Kut still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured 

' wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted qui- 
etly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace 

to thee 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all 

calm. 
Rut when they left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant 

field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd; the 

owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the 

wind. 



And in those days she made a little song, 
And call'd her song "The Song of Love 

and Death," 
And sang it: sweetly could she make and 

sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in 
vain; 

And swe&t is death who puts an end to pain ; 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death 
must be; 
Love, thou art bitter; svi'eet is death to me. 
(J Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

" .Sweet love, that seems not made to fade 

away, 
-Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless 

clay, 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not L 

" I fain would follow love, if that could 
be; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me; 
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, 

and this, 
All in a flery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, 

and thought 
With shuddering " Hark the Phantom of the 

house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of 

dawn 
Flared <m her face, she shrilling '-^ Let me 

die!" 

As when we dwell upon a word we know 
Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought 
" Ls this Elaine?" till back the maiden fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said " Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among the 

woods. 
And when ye used to take me with the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt 



342 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet he would not; but this night I 

dream 'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood. 
And then I said ' Now shall I have my 

will ' : 
And there I woke, but still the wish re- 

main'd. 
So let me hence tliat I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood. 
Until I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all. 
And no man there will dare to mock at me; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; 
Cawain, who bade a thousand farewells to 

me, 

Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me one : 
And there the King will know me and my 

love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity me. 
And all the gentle court will welcome me, 
And after my long voyage I shall rest! " 

"Peace," said her father, "O my child, 

ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go, 
So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye 

look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us 

all?" 

•'Then the rough Torre began to heave 

and move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say 
" I never loved him: an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be. 
Then will I strike at him and strike him 

down, 
Ciive me good fortune, I will strike him 

dead. 
For this discomfort he hath done thehouse." 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 
"Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be 

wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 

highest." 

. ' Highest?" the Father answer'd, echoing 
" highest?" 



(He meant to break the passion in her) 

" nay. 
Daughter, I know not what you call the 

highest; 
But this I know, for all the people know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low?" 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat; 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger: these are slanders: never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you. 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return: 
Yet, seeing ye desire your child to live. 
Thanks, but ye work against your o\vn 

• desire; 
For if I could believe the things ye say 
I should but die the sooner; wherefore 

cease. 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and 

die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and 

gone. 
She with a face bright, as for sin forgiven, 
]5esought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word; and when he ask'd 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? 
Then will I beai it gladly"; she replied, 
" For Lancelot and the C^ueen and all the 

world. 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised: which being writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender and 

true. 
Deny me not," she said — " ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange, 
My latest: lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. 
And wlien the heat is gone from out my 

heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the 

Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 




" And the dead, 
Steered by the dumb, luciit itpivard with i he flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter:' 

Lancelot axd Elaine, Page 343. 



LANCELOT AXD EL.ALNE. 



343 



To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own 

self. 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 



She ceased: her father promised; vvhei-e 

upon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her 

death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the 

eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 



But when the next sun brake from under- 
ground. 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent 

brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the 

barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to 

her 
" Sister, farewell for ever," and again 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the 

dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the 

flood- 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming 

down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 



That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift. 
Hard -won and hardly won with bruise and 

blow. 
With deaths of others, and almost his own. 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he 

saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that 

he. 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her 

feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace. 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls. 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the 

stream. 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttei'd, 

" Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jewels, and make me happy, making 

them 
An armlet for the roundest arm en earth. 
Or necklace for a neck to which the s\\an's 
Is tawnier than' her cygnet's: these are 

words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin 

in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my 

Queen, 
I heard of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife. 
Should have in it an absoluter tiust 
To make up that defect: let rumors be: 
When did not rumors fly? these, as 1 trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, 
the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast ihtm off, 



Drawn to her waist, and she herself in whiteTiU all the place whereon bhe stood v\ as 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face] green; 

Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead iThen, when he ceased, in one cold passive 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.; hand 



344 



IDYLLS OF 771 E AV.VG. 



Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, and replied. 

" It may he, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill. 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and 

wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
[ did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these? 
Diamonds for me! they had been thrice 

their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 
To loyal heaits the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me! 
For her! for your new fancy. Only this 
Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart. 
1 doubt not that however changed, you 

keep 
So much of what is graceful: and myself 
Would shun to Ijreak those bonds of cour- 
tesy 
In which as Arthur's queen I move and 

rule: 
.So cannot speak my mind. An end to this! 
A strange one! yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; 
Deck her with these; tell her she shines me 

down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
( ) as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — hers not 

mine — 
Nay, by the mother of «ur Lord himself, 
( )r hers or mine, mine now to work mv 

will- 
She shall not have them."' 

.Saying which she seized. 
And, thro' the casement standing wide for 

heal. 
Flung them, and tlown they Hash'd, and 

smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface ilash'd, as 

it were. 

Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half dis- 
dain 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 



Where these had fallen, slowly past the 

barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst 

away 
To weep and wail in secret; and the barge. 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door; 

to whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes 

that ask'd 
" What is it? " but that oarsman's haggard 

face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to the fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they 

said, 
" Me is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Lqpk how she sleeps — -the Fairy Queen, so 

fair ! 
Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh 

and blood? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, 
But that he passes into fairy land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the 

King 
Came girt with knights: then turn'd the 

tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain aifd wonder'd 

at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her. 
And last file Queen herself and pitied her: 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stwopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this 

was all. 

" Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the 

Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell, 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return, 
And therefore my true love has been my 

death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



345 



And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As tliou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read. 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his facewhoread 
To hers who lay so silent, and at times, 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her 

lips. 
Who had devised the letter, m-^ved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them 

all; 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's 

death 
Right heavy am I; for good she was and 

true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love: 
To this I call my friends in testimony. 
Her brethren, and her father, who himself 



Was but the flash of youth, would darken 

down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then 

would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor. 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, 
To keep them in all joyance: more than this 
I could not; this she would not, and she 

died." 



He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O my 
knight. 
It will be to thy worship, as my knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all 

the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The marshall'd order of their Table Hound, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 
And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. 
And when the knights had laid her comely 

head 



Besought me to be plain and blunt, andij f„v in u^j. ^^,^1 ^,f half-forgotten kings. 



use. 

To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature: what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell. 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have 

died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough 

use. 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm) 
" Ve might at least have done her so much 

grace. 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from 

her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers 

fell. 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, 

she ask'd; 
It could nut be. I told her that her love 



Then Arthur spake among them, " Let her 

tomb 
Be costly, and her image thereupon. 
And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 
Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of hei' dolorous voyage 
For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb 
In letters gold and azure!" which wcs 

wrought 
Thereafter; but when now the lords and 

dames 
And people, from the high door streaming, 

brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 
Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved 

apart. 
Drew near, and sigh'd in passing " Lance- 
lot, 
Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love." 
He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 
" That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, 

forgiven." 
But Arthur who beheld his cloudy brows 
Approach'd him, and with full affection 

flung 



346 



IDYLLS OF THE KLNG. 



One arm about his neck, and spake and 
said. 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom 

I have 
Most love and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watched thee at the 

tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised 

knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To win his honor and tc make his name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved; but now I would to God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems. 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
IJorn to the glory of thy name and fame. 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the 

Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot," Fair she was, 

my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be 

bound"." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," said 
the King. 
" Let love be free; free love is for the best: 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think. 
Unbound .vs yet, and gentle, as 1 know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he 
went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 



And saw the liarge that brought her mov- 
ing down. 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself " Ah simple heart and 

sweet. 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for 

thy soul? 
Ay, that will L Farewell too — now at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in love'? 
Xot rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous 

pride? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love. 
May not your crescent fear for name and 

fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? 
Why did the King dwell on my name to me? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a re- 
proach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn 
She kiss'd me saying 'Thou art fair, my child. 
As a king's son,' and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er 

it be! 
For what am I? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and 

have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; 
Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin 

known? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart! I needs must 

break 
These bonds that so defame me: not with- 
out 
She wills it: would I, if she will'd it? nay, 
WJio knows? but if I would not, then may 

God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far. 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful 
pain. 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



From noiseful aims, and acts of prowess 

done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his kniglithood call'd 

The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the 

cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long after, 

died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the 

rest, 
And honor'd him, and wrought into his 

heart 
A way by love that waken'd love within, 
To answer that wiiich came: and as they 

sat 
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening 

half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That pufi'd the swaying branches into 

smoke. 
Above them, ere the summer when he died. 
The monk Ambrosius question'd Percivale: 

" O brother, I have seen this yew-tree 
smoke. 



And earthly heats that spring and sparkle 

out 
Among us in the jousts, while women watch 
\Vho wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual 

strength 
Within us, better ofier'd up to Fleaven." 

To whom the monk: "The Holy Grail! 

— I trust 
W'e are green in Heaven's eyes; but here 

too much 
We moulder — as to things without I mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of 

ours. 
Told us of this in our refectory. 
But spake with such a sadness and so low 
We heard not half of what he said. What 

is it? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and 

goes? " 

" Nay, monk! what phantom? " answer'd 

Percivale. 
" The cup, the cup itself, from which our 

Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah — the good 

saint, 
Arimathrean Joseph, journeying brought 



.Spring after spring, for half a hundred To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 



Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode; and if a man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'dat once, 
By faith, of all hisills. But then the times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and disap- 
pear'd." 

To whom the monk: "From our old 
books I know 
That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, 
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table'And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, 

Round, JGave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; 

iSIy brother? was it earthly passion crost?"^And there he built with wattles from the 

marsh 
" Nay," said the knight; " for no such A little lonely church in days of yore, 

passion mine. I For so they say, these books of ours, but seem 

But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail IMute of this miracle, far as I have read. 

Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, jBut who first saw the holy thing to-day?" 

(347) 



years: 

For never have I known the world without. 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale: but thee. 
When first thou earnest — such a courtesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice — I 

knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins. 
Some true, some light, but everyone of you 
Stamp'd with the image of the King; and 

now 



348 



IDYLLS OF THE KLXG. 



"A woman," answer'd Peicivale, "a nun, 
And one no further oft' in blood from nie 
Than sister; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the stone, 
A holy maid; tho' never maiden glow'd, 
F.ut that was in her earlier maidenhood, 
With such a fervent flame of human love, 
Which being rudely blunted, glanced and 

shot 
Only to holy things; to prayer and praise 
She gave herself, t<j fast and alms. And yet, 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, 
Sin against Arthur ajid the Table Round, 
And the strange soun<J*bf„an adulterous race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all the more. 

" And he to whom she told her sins, or 

what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
-Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thrcj' five or six, 
And each of these a hundred winters old. 
From our Lord's time. And when King 

Arthur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts be- 
came 
Clean for a season, surely he had thought 
That now the Holy (irail would come again ; 
15ut sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would 

come, 
And heal the world of all their wickedness! 
'O Father." asked the maiden, 'might it 

come 
To me by prayer and fasting?' ' Nay,' said 

he, 
' I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow.' 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and I 

thought 
She miglit have risen and floated when I saw 

her. 

" For on a day she sent to speak with me 
And when she came to speak, behold her eyes 
Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful. 
Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, 
Beautiful in the light of holiness. 
And 'O my brother, Tercivale,' she saiil, 
' Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 
Blown, and I thought, "It is not Arthur's use 



To hunt by moonlight"; and the slender 

sound 
As from a distance beyond distance grew 
Coming upon me — C) never harp nor horn, 
Nor aught we l)low with breath, or touch 

with hand. 
Was like that music as it came; and then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and silver 

beam. 
And down the long beam stole the Holy 

Grail, 
Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive. 
Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall; 
And then the music faded, and the Cirail 
Pass'd, and the beam decay'd, and from 

the walls 
The rosy quiverings died into the night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast and 

pray. 
That so perchance the vision may Ije seen 
By thee and those, and all the world be 

heal'd.' 



"Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of 
this 
To all men; and myself fasted' and pray'd 
Always, and many among us many a week 
Fasted and pray'd even to the uttermost. 
Expectant of the wonder that would be. 

" And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
' God make thee good as thou art beautiful,' 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him knight; 

and none. 
In so young youth, was ever made a knight 
Till Galahad; and this Galahad, when he 

heard 
My sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more than I. 

"Sister or brother none had he; but 

some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some 

said 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers they, 
Like birds of passage piping up and down, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



349 



That gape for flies — we know not whence 

they come; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd? 

" But she, the wan sweet maiden shore 

away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth of 

hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for her 

feet; 
And out of this she plaited broad and long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver 

thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam; 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound 

it on him. 
Saying, " My knight, my love, my knight 

■ of heaven, 
O thou, my love, wliose love is one with 

mine, 
T, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my 

belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have 

seen. 
And break thro' all, till one will crown thee 

king 
Far in tiie spiritual city ': and as she spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her eyes 



" And all at once, as there we sat, we 

heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs. 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the hall 
A beam of light seven times more clear 

than day: 
And down the long beam stole the Holy 

Grail 
All over cover'd with a luminous cloud, 
And none might see who bare it, and it 

past. 
But every knight l)eheld his fellow's face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose. 
And staring each at other like dumb men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. 

" I sware a vow before them all, that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would 

ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it; and C^alahad sware the 

vow. 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, 

sware. 
And Lancelot sware, and many among the 

knights. 



Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid And Gawain sware, and louder than the 



her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

"Then came a year of miracle: O bro- 
ther. 

In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, 

Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away. 

And carven with strange figures; and in and 
out 

The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 

Uf letters in a tongue no man could read. 

And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege perilous,' 

Perilous for good and- ill; ' for there,' he 
said, 

' No man could sit but he should lose him- 
self: 

And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 

In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, I 

CSalahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom,^^^''" ^^ ^ sail that leaves the rope is torn 

Cried, ' If I lose myself I save myself!' M" tempest: so the king arose and went 

To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild 
" Then on a summer night it came to' bees 

pass, I That made such honey in his realm. How- 

While the great banquet lay along the hall,i belt 

That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's, Some little of this marvel he too saw, 

chair, j Returning o'er the plain that then began 



rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking 
him, 
" What said the King? Did Arthur take 
the vow?" 

" Nay, ft)r my lord," said Percivale, 
" the king, 
Was not in hall: for early that same day. 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit hold. 
An outraged maiden sprang into the hall 
Crying on help: for all her shining hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either milky 

arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all 
she wore 



350 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



To darken under Camelot; whence the king 
Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo there! the 

roofs 
Of our great hall are roU'd in thunder- 
smoke! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the 

bolt.' 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, 
As having there so oft with all his knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. 

[ 

"O lirother, had you known our mighty 

hall, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, : 

And all the dim rich city, roof by roof. 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 
By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing 

brook, 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set be- 
twixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, i 
And in the second men are slaying beasts, i 
And on the third are warriors, perfect men,! 
And on the fourth are men with growing 

wings. 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the Northern 

Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and the 

crown ; 

And both the wings are made of gold, and 

flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields, 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes. 
Behold it, crying, ' We have still a king.' 

"And, brother, had you known our hall 

within. 
Broader and higher than any in all the 

lands! 
Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's 

wars. 
And all the light that falls upon the board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles of our 

King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, 
W^ealthy with wandering lint-s of mount 

and mere. 
Where Arthur finds the brand, Excalibur. 
And also one to the west, and counter to it, 



And blank: and who shall blazon it? when 

and how? — 
O there, perchance, when all our wars are 

done. 
The brand Excalibur will be cast away. 

" So to this hall full quickly rode the 

King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, 

wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all: 
And many of those who burnt the hold, 

their arms 
Ilack'd, and their foreheads grimed with 

smoke, and sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, ours, 
Full of the vision, prest: and then the King 
Spake to me, being nearest, ' Percivale,' 
(Because the hall was all in tumult — some 
Vowing, and some protesting), ' what is 

this?' 

" O brother, when I told him what had 

chanced, 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his face 
Darken 'd, as I have seen it more than once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be done 

in vain, 
Darken; and ' W^oe is me, my knights,' he 

cried, 
' Had I been here, ye had not sworn the 
» vow.' 

Bold was mine answer, ' Had thyself been 

here. 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn.' 'Yea, 

yea,' said he. 
Art thou so bold and hast not seen the 

Grail?' 



" ' Nay, Lord, I heard the sound, I saw 
the light, 
But since I did not see the Holy Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' 



"Then wdien he asked us, knight by 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as one: 
' Nay, Lord, and therefore have we sworn 

our vows.' 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



35' 



<' ' Lo now,' said Arthur, ' have ye seen 
a cloud? 
What go ye into the wilderness to see?' 

" Then Galahad on the sudden, and in 
a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call'd, 
' But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.' 

" 'Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the King, 

' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these. 
The holy nun and thou have seen a sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I made. 
But you, that follow but the leader's bell ' 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights) 
' Taliessin is our fullest throat of song. 
And one hath sung and all the dumb will 

sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne 
Five knights at once, and every younge 

knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — and ye, 
What are ye? Galahads? — no, nor Perci- 

vales ' 
(For thus it pleased the King to range me 

close 
After Sir Galahad); ' nay,' said he, 'but 

men 
With strength and will to right the wrong'd, 

of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, 
Knights that in twelve great battles splash'd 

and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own heathen 

blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind will 

see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O my 

knights. 
Your places being vacant at my side, 
This chance of noble deeds will come and go 
Unchallenged, while you follow wandering 

fires 
Lost in the quagmire? Many of you, yea 

most. 
Return no more; yet think I show myself 
Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet 



The morrow morn once more in one full 

field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more the 

King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, may 

count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he made.' 

" So when the sun broke next from under 
ground, 
All the great table of our Arthur closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so full, 
vSo many lances broken — never yet 
Had C'amelot seen the like, since Arthur 

came. 
And I myself and Galahad, for a strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that all the people cried. 
And almost burst the barriers in their heat. 
Shouting ' Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale! ' 

" But when the next day brake from 

under ground — 
O brother, had you known our Camelot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so old 
The King himself had fears that it would 

fall, 
So strange, and rich, and dim; for where 

the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the sky. 
Met foreheads all along the street of those 
Who watch'd us pass; and lower, and 

where the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the 

necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, showers 

of flowers 
Fell as we past; and men and boys astride 
On wyvern, lien, dragon, griffin, swan, 
At all the corners, named us each by name. 
Calling ' God speed !' but in the street be- 
low 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich and 

poor 
Wept, and the King himself could hardly 

speak 
For grief, and in the middle street the Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and shriek'd 

aloud, « 
' This madness has come on us for our sins.' 
And then we reach'd the weirdly-sculptured 

gate, 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystic- 
ally, 
And thence dep.arted every one his way. 

" And 1 was lifted up in heart, and thouj^ht 
( )f all my late-shown prowess in the lists, 
How my strong lance had beaten down the 

knights, 
So many and famous names; and never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor earth so 

green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I knew 
That I should light upon the H.oly Grail. 

"Thereafter, the dark warning of our 

King, 
That most of us would AjIIow wandering 

fires, 
Came like a driving gloom across my mind. 
Then every evil word I had spoken once. 
And every evil thought I had thought of old, 
And every evil deed I ever did, 
Awoke and cried, ' This Quest is not for 

thee.' 
And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself 
Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns. 
And I was thirsty even unto death; 
And I, too, cried, ' This Quest is not for thee.' 

" And on I rode, and when I thought my 

thirst 
NN'ould slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a 

brook. 
With one sharp rapid, where the crisping 

white 
I'lay'd ever back upon the sloping wave. 
And took both ear and eye; and o'er the 

brook 
Were apple-trees, and apjiles by the brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. ' I will rest here,' 
I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest'; 
Hut even while I drank the brook, and ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone, 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 

" And then behold a woman at a door 
SiMnning; and fair the house whereby she 

sat, 
And kind the woman's eyes and innocent, 
And all her bearing gracious; and she rose 
Opening her arms to mes;t me, as who 

should say, 
' Rest here'; but when I touched her, lol 

she, too, 



Fell into dust and nothing, and the house 
Became no better than a broken shed, 
And in it a dead balse; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

" And on I rode, and greater was my 

thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across the 

world. 
And where it smote the ploughshare in the 

held. 
The ploughman left his ploughing, and fell 

down 
Before it; where it glitter'd on her pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, and fell 

down 
Before it, and I know not why, but thought 
' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun had risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me moved 
In golden armor with a crown of gold 
About a casque all jewels; and his horse 
In golden armor jewell'd everywhere: 
And on the splendor came, flashing me 

blind; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the world. 
Being so huge. But when I thought he 

meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too. 
Opened his arms to embrace me as he came, 
And up I went and touch'd him, and he, 

too. 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. 

" And I rode on and found a mighty hill, 
And on the top, a city wall'd: the spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd; and 

these 
Cried to me climbing, ' Welcome, Perci- 

vale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest among 

men !' 
And glad was I and clomb, but found at 

top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there; but there 

I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
' Where is that goodly company,' said I, 
' That so cried out upon me ?' and he had 
Scarce any voice lo answer, and yet gasp'd 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



353 



••Whence and what art thou?' and even as 

he spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more, and cried in 

grief, 
' Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into dust.' 

"And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, 
Low as the hill was high, and where the 

vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel and thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he said : 

" ' O son, thou hast not true humility. 
The highest virtue, mother of them all; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
" Take thou my robe," she said, " for all 

is thine," 
And all her fbrm shone forth with sudden 

light 

So that the angels were amazed, and she 
Follow'd him down, and like a flying star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the east; 
But her thou hast not known : for what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy 

sins? 
Thou has not lost thyself to save thyself 
As Galahad.' When the hermit made an 

end, « 

In silver armor suddenly Galahad shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in 

prayer. 
And there the hermit slaked my burning 

thirst 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone; but he; 
'Saw ye no nioie? \, Galahad, saw the 

Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and went; 
And hither am I come; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, 
This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, nor 

come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night and day, 
Fainter by day, I)ut always in the night 
Blood-red, and si ding down the blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top 

23 



Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of this I 

rode, 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and made 

them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore 

them down. 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength of 

this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, 
And hence I go; and one will crown me 

king 
Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, 

too. 
For thou shalt see the vision when I go.' 

" While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling 

on mine. 
Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew 
One with him, to believe as he believed. 
Then, when the day began to wane, we 

went. 

"There rose a hill that none but man 

could climb, 
Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, 

storm 
Round us and death; for every moment 

glanced 
His silver arms and gloom'd: so quick and 

thick 
The lightnings here and there to left and 

right 
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, 

dead, 
Yea, rotten with a Irundred years of death, 
Sprang into fire: and at the base we found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil smell. 
Part black, part whiten'd with the bones of 

men. 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with many a 

bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great sea. 
And Galahad fied along them bridge by 

bridge. 
And every bridge as quickly as he crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I yearn'd 
To follow; and thrice above him all the 

heavens 



354 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Open'd* and blazed with thunder such as 

seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God; and first 
At once I saw him far on the great sea, 
In silver-shining armor starry-clear; 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the l^oat, 
If boat it were — I saw not whence it came. 
And when the heavens open'd and blazed 

again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the boat 
Become a living creature clad with wings? 
And o'er his head the holy vessel hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me. 
For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight beyond 

the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her spires 
And gateways in a glory like one pearl — 
No larger, th j' the goal of all the saints — 
Strike from thesea;^and from the star there 

shot 
A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there 
Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the 

deep. 
And how my feet recross'd the deathful ridge 
No memory in me lives; but that I touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and 

thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy man, 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, re- 

turn'd 
To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's 

wars." 

"O brother," ask'd Ambrosius, — "for 

in sooth 
These ancient books — and they would win 

thee — teem. 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
\Vith miracles and marvels like to these. 
Not all unlike; which oftentime I read, 
Who read but tm my breviary with ease. 
Till my head swims; and then go forth and 

pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so close. 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's nest 
To these old walls — and mingle with our 

folk; 



And knowing every honest face of theirs, 
As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep. 
And every homely secret in their hearts. 
Delight myself with gossip and old wives. 
And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in. 
And mirthful sayings, children of the place, 
That have no meaning half a league away: 
Or lulling random squabbles when they 

rise, 
Chafferings and chatterings at the market- 
cross. 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world of 

mine. 
Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs — 

brother, saving this Sir Galahad 
Came ye on none but phantoms in your 

quest. 
No man, no woman?" 

Then, Sir Percivale: 
" All men, to one so bound by such avow, 
And women were as phantoms. O, my 

brother. 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and vow? 
For after I had lain so many nights 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake. 
In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not come, 
And then I chanced upon a goodly town 
With one great dwelling in the middle of it; 
Thither I made, and there was I disarm'd 
By maidens eackas fair as any flower: 
But when they led me into hall, behold 
The Princess of that castle was the one, 
Brother, and that one only, who had ever 
Made my heart leap; for when I moved ol 

old 
A slender page about her father's hall, 
And she a slender maiden, all my heart 
Went after her with longing : yet we twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a vow. 
And now I came upon her once again. 
And one had wedded her, and he was dead, 
And all his land and wealth and state were 

hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me; for all her longing and her will 
Was toward me as of old; till one fair 

morn, 

1 walking to and fro beside a stream 
That llash'd across her orchard underneath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk. 
And calling me the greatest of all knights, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



355 



Embraced nie, and so kiss'd nie the first 

time, 
And gave herself and all her wealth to me. 
Then 1 rcmembcr'd Arthur's warning word, 
That most of us would follow wantlcring 

tires, 
And the Quest fadctl in my heart. Anon, 
The heads of all her pet'ple drew to me, 
With supplication holh of knees and 

tongue: 
• W'e have heard of thee: thou art our 

greatest knight. 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe: 
Wed thou our l,ady, and rule over us. 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land.' 
O me, my brother! but one night my vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and tied, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine own 

self, 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, 'and all but her; 
Then after I was join'd with Clalahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.'' 

Then said the monk, " Poor men, when 
yule is cold. 
Must be Content to sit by little hres. 
And this am I, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor house 

of ours. 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm 
My cold heart with a friend : but O the jiity 
To hnd thine own hrst love once more — to 

hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. 
For we that want the warmth of double 

life, 
We that are plagued with dreams of some- 
thing sweet 
l>eyond all sweetness in a life so rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly wise. 
Seeing 1 never stray'd beyond tlie cell. 
Hut live like an old badger in his earth. 
With earth about him everywhere, despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside, 
>.one of vour kniiilits?" 

" Yea so," said Percivale: 
" One night my jnithway swerving east, 1 

saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon : 



And toward him spurr'd and hail'd him, 

and he me, 
And each made joy of either; then he ask'd, 
" Where is he? hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot? Once,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' he dash'd across me 

— mad, 
And maddening what he rode: and when I 

cried, 
" Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy?" Lancelot shouted, " Stay me 

not! 
I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, 
For now there is a lion in the way." 
So vanish'd.' 

" Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, 
Because his former madness, once the talk 
Ami scandal of our table, had return'd; 
For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship 

him 
That ill to him is ill to them; to Bors 
Beyond the rest : he well had been content 
Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have 

seen 
The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed, 
Being so clouded with his grief and love, 
Small heart was his after the Holy Quest: 
If Cod would send the vision, well: if not. 
The Quest and he were in the hands of 

heaven. 

" And then, with small adventure met, 

.Sir Bors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm. 
And found a people there among their crags, 
Our race and blood, a remnant that were 

left 
I'aynim amid their circles, and the stones 
They jiitch uj) stiaight to heaven: and 

their wise men 
W"ere strong in that old magic which can 

trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scotT'd at 

him 
.■\nd this High Quest as at a simple thing: 
Told him he follow'd — almost ArtJiur's 

wonls — 
A mocking tire: 'what other hre than he. 
Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom 

blows. 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd?' 



356 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And when his answer chafed them, the 

rough crowd, 
Hearing he had a diiTerence with their 

priests, 
Seized him, and bound and plunged him 

into a cell 
Of great piled stones: and lying bounden 

there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep 
Over him, till by miracle — what else? — 
Heavy as it'w'as,a great stone slipt and fell, 
Such as no wind could move: and thro' the 

gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud: then came 

a night 
Still as the day was loud; and thro' the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table 

Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because they 

roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we named 

the stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our king — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone, 'And then to me, to me,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' beyond all hopes of 

mine, 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for my- 
self— 
Across the seven clear stars — O grace to 

me— - 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it peal'd 
A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards a 

maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him go." 

To whom the monk; " And I remember 

now 
That pelican on the casque. Sir Bors it was 
Who spoke so low and sadly at our board; 
And mighty reverent at our grace was he: 
A square-set man and honest; and his eyes, 
An out-door sign of all the warmth within, 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath a 

cloud, 
But heaven had meant it for a sunny one: 
Ay, ay. Sir Bors, who else? But when ye 

reach'd 
The city, found ye all yourknights return'd 
Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy, 



Tell me, and what said each, and what the 
King?" 

Then answer'd Percivale: "And that 
can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our King 
Pass not from door to door and out again, 
But sit within the house. O, when we 

reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cocka- 
trices. 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left the 

stones 
Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the 
hall. 

" And there sat Arthur on the dais-throne, 
And those that had gone out upon the Quest, 
Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, 
And those that had not, stood before the 

King. 
Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade me 

hail. 
Saying, ' A welfare in thine eye reproves 
Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. 
So fierce a gale made havoc here of late 
Among the strange devices of our kings; 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of 

ours, 
And from the statue Merlin moulded for us 
Half-wrench'd a golden wing; but now — 

the quest. 
This vision — hast thou seen the Holy Cup, 
That Joseph lirought of old to Glastonbury ?' 

" So when I told him all thyself hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve 
To pass away into the quiet life, 
He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, ask'd 
Of Gawain, ' Gavvain, was this Quest for 

thee? ' 

" ' Nay, lord,' said Gawain, ' not for such 
as I. • 

Therefore I communed with a saintly man, 
Who made me sure the Quest was not for 

me; 
For I was much awearied of the Quest: 
But found a silk pavilion in a field, 
And lucVry maidens in itj and then this gale 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



357 



Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, 
And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort; yea, and but for this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant 
• to me.' 

" He ceased; and Arthur turn'd to whom 

at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his 

hand. 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, 

stood. 
Until the King espied him, saying to him, 
' Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Crail '; 

and Bors, 
' Ask me not, for I may not speak of it, 
I saw it ': and the tears were in his eyes. 

•' Then there remain'd but I,ancelot, for 

the rest 
Spake but of sundry perils in the storm; 
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, 
Our Arthur kept his best until the last; 
' Thou, too, my Lancelot,' ask'd the King, 

' my friend. 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd for 

thee? ' 

"'Our mightiest!' answer'd Lancelot, 

with a groan; 
' OKing!' — and when he paused, methought 

I spied 
A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 
' O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be. 
Happier are those that welter in their sin. 
Swine in themud,that cannot see forslime, 
Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure. 
Noble, and knightly in me twined and 

clung 
Round that one sin, until the wholesome 

flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as each, 
Not to be pluck'd asunder; and when thy 

knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. Then 1 

spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and said, 
That save they could be pluck'd asunder, 

all 



My quest were but in vain; to whom I 

vow'd 
That I would work according as he will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn 'd and 

strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my heart. 
My madness came upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far away; 
There was I beaten down by little men. 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of my 

sword 
And shadow of my spear had been enow 
To scare them from me once; and then I 

came 
All in my folly to the naked shore. 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse gi asses 

grew : 
But such a blast, my King, began to blow. 
So loud a blast along the shore and sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam sway'd a 

boat, 
Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a chain; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
" I will embark and I will lose myself. 
And in the great sea wash away my sin." 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary deep. 
And with me drove the moon and all the 

stars: 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the surge. 
And felt the boat shock earth, and looking 

up. 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock, 
With chasm-like portals open to the sea. 
And steps that met the breaker! there was 

none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up the 

stairs. 
There drew my sword. W^ith sudden- 
flaring manes 
Those two great t easts rose upright like a 

man. 
Each gripta shoulder, and I stood between; 
And, when I would have smitten them. 

heard a voice, 



358 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



" Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, 

the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal." Then with vio- 
lence 
The sword was dash'd from out my hand, 

and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, 
No bench nor table, painting on the wall 
Or shield of knight; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower 
To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand 

steps 
With pain: as in a dream I seem'd to climb 
For ever: at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I heard, 
" Glory and joy and honor to our Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail." 
Then in my madness I essay'd the door; 
It gave; and thro' a stormy glare, a heat 
As f'om a seventimes-heated furnace, I, 
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was. 
With such a fierceness that I swoon'd 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and v/ings and 

eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my sin 
And then my swooning, 1 had sworn I saw 
That which I saw ; but what I saw was veil'd 
And cover'd; and this quest was not for me.' 

" So speaking, and here ceasing, Lance- 
lot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain — nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was he, 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his King, — 
Well, I will tell thee: ' O king, my liege,' 

he said, 
' Ilath Gawain fail'd in any quest of thine? 
When have I stinted stroke in foughten 

field? 
But as for thine, my good friend, Percivale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven men 

mad. 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than our 

least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, 



And thrice as blind as any noonday owl. 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies, 
Henceforward.' 

" ' Deafer,' said the blameless King, 
' Gawain, and blinder unto holy things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows. 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot, and Percivale, 
For these have seen according to their 

sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times. 
And all the sacred madness of the bard, 
When God made music thro' them, could 

but speak 
His music by the framework and the chord; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 



Nay- 
yet 



-but thou errest, Lancelot: never 



Could all of true and noble in knight and 

man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it might be. 
With such a closeness, but apart there grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou spakest of. 
Some root of knighthood and pure noble- 
ness; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its 
flower. 

" 'And spake I not too truly, O my 
knights? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy Quest, 
That most of them would follow wandering 

fires. 
Lost in the quagmire? — lost to me and 

gone. 
And left me gazing at a barren board, 
And a lean Order — scarce return'd a tithe — 
And out of those to whom the vision came 
My greatest hardly will believe he saw; 
Another hath beheld it afar off, 
And leaving human wrongs to right them- 
selves. 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to face. 
And now his chair desires him here in vain. 
However they may crown him otherwhere. 

" 'And some among you held, that if 
the King 
Had seen the sight he would have sworn 
the vow : 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



359 



Not easily, seeing that the King must guard [This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, 
That which he rules, and is but as the hind This air that smites his forehead is not air 
To whom a space of land is given to plough,' But vision — yea, his very hand and foot — 
Who may not wander from the allottedTn moments when he feels he cannot die, 



field. 

Before his work be done; but, being done, 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will; and many a time they 

come, 
Until this earth he walks on seems not 

earth, 



And knows himself no vision to himself. 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One 
Who rose again; ye have seen what ye 
have seen.' 

" So spake the king: I knew not all he 
meant." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



King Arthur made new knights tu fill the 

gap 
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these a 

youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along with 

him. 

"Make me thy knight, because I know, 

Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I 

love," 
Such was his cry; for having heard the 

King 

Had let proclaim a tournament — the prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword, 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
The golden circlet, for himself the sword: 
And there were those who knew him near 

the King 
And promised for him: and Arthur made 

him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the 

isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance, 
And lord of many a barren isle was he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and 

reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse; but saw 
Near him a mound of even-sloping side. 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, 
And here and thei'e great hollies under 

them. 
But for a mile all round was open space. 
And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas 

drew 
To that dim day, then binding his good 

horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay 
At random looking over the brown earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the 

grove. 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 

(360) 



So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud 
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 
Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes 

closed. 
And since he loved all maidens, but no maid 
In special, half-awake he whisper'd, 

" Where? 
O where? I love thee, tho' I know thee not. 
For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, 
And I will make thee with my spear and 

sword 
As famous — O my queen, my Guinevere, 
For I will be thine Arthur when we meet." 

Suddenly waken'd with a sound of talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood. 
And glancing thro' tlfe hoary boles, he saw, 
Strange as to some old prophet might have 

seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire. 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken 

stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly. 
And one was pointing this way, and one 

that. 
Because the way was lost. 

And Pelleas rose. 
And loosed his horse, and led him to the 

light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among them 

said, 
"In happy time behold our pilot-star! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to lilt against the knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost our way: 
To right ? to left ? straightforward ? back 

again? 
Which? tell us quickly." 

And Pelleas gazing thought, 
" Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?" 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and her 

bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, 



rELLEAS AND ET7ARRE. 



361 



And round her limbs, mature in woman- His broken utterances and bashfulness, 

hood, [Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart 

And slender was her hand and small her She mutter'd, " I have lighted on a fool, 

shape, jRaw, yet so stale!" But since her mind 

And but fur those large eyes, the haunts ofi was bent 

scorn. On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name 

She might have seeni'd a toy to trifle with, And title, " Queen of Beauty," in the lists 
And pass and care no more. But while he Cried — and beholding him so strong, she 

gazed thought 

The beauty of her flesh abash'd the boy. That peradventure he will fight for me, 
As tho' it were the beauty of her soul: And win the circlet: therefore flatter'd him. 

For as the base man, judging of the good, Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deem'd 
Puts his own baseness in him by default lllis wish by hers was echo'd; and her 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend knights 

All the young beauty of his own soul tojAnd all her damsels too were gracious to 

hers, him, 

Believing her; and when she spake to him,lFor she was a great lady. 
Stammer'd, and could not make her a reply. 

For out of the waste islands had he come. And when they reach'd 

"Where saving his own sisters he had known' Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she. 



Scarce any but the women of his isles. 
Rough wives, that laughed and scream'd 

against the gulls. 
Makers of nets, and living from the sea 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the lady 
round 
And look'd upon her people; and as when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn. 
The circle widens till it lip the marge. 



Taking his hand, " O the strong hand," 

she said, 
"See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight 

for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee?" 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried <'Ay! wilt thou if I 
win?" 



Spread the slow smile thro' all her com-{"Ay, that will I," she answer'd, and she 

laugh 'd. 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from 

her; 
Then glanced askew at those three knights 

of hers. 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with her. 



pany. 
Three knights were thereamong; and they 

too smil'd. 
Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 



Again she said, "O wild and of the woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee a 

fair face. 
Lacking a tongue?" * 



" O damsel," answer'd he 
•■'I woke from dreams; and coming out of 

gloom 

Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave 
Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I 
Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?" 



" O happy world," thought Pelleas, " all, 
meseems, 
Are happy; I the happiest of them all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in his 

blood. 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among the 

leaves; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, sware 
To love one only. And as he came away. 
The men who met him rounded on their 

heels 
And wonder'd al'ter him, because his face 
"Lead then," she said; and thro' the Shone like the countenance of a priest of 
woods they went. old 

And while they rode, the meaning of his Against the flame about a sacrifice 

eyes. Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad was 

His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe,| he. 



362 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Then Arthur made vast banquets, and 
strange knights 
From the four winds came in : and each one 

sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, land, 

stream, and sea. 
Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes 
His neighbor's make and might: and Pel- 
leas look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 
His lady loved him, and he knew himself 
Loved of the King: and him his new-made 

knight 
Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved 

him more 
Than all the ranged reasons of the world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morning of 

the jousts, 
And this was call'd "The Tournament of 

Youth " : 
For Arthur, loving his young knight, with 

held 
His older and his mightier from the lists. 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love, 
According to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the 

jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk 
Holden: the gilded parapets were crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fiU'd with 

eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field 
With honor: so by that strong hand of his 
The sword and golden circlet were achieved 

Then rang the shout his lady loved: the 
heat 

Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye 

Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his 
lance. 

And there before the people crown'd her- 
self. 

So for the last time she was gracious to him. 

Then at Caerleon for a space — her look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop, 
Said Guinevere, " We marvel at thee much, 
O damsel, wearing this unsunny face 
To him who won thee glory!" And she 

said, 



" Had ye not held your Lancelot in your 

bower. 
My Queen, he had not won." Whereat the 

Queen, 
As one whose foot is bitten by an ant. 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and went 

her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and herself, 
And those three knights all set their faces 

home. 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw him 

cried, 
"Damsels — and yet I should be shamed 

to say it — 
I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather that we 

had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way. 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with: take him to you, keep him 

off. 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep. 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell their 

boys. 
Nay, should ye try him with a merry one 
To find his mettle, good; and if he fly us, 
Small matter! let him." This her damsels 

heard. 
And mindful of her small and cruel hand. 
They, closing round him thro' the journey 

home, 
Acted her hest, and always from her side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of device. 
So that he could not come to speech with 

her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, upsprang 

the bridge, 
Down rang the gragi of iron thro' the 

groove. 
And he was left alone in open field. 

"These be the ways of ladies," Pelleas 

thought, 
" To those who love them, trials of our 

faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, 
For loyal to the uttermost am L" 
So made his moan; and, darkness falling, 

sought 
A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose 
With morning every day, and, moist or dry, 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



363 



Full-arm'd upon his charger all day long 
Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to him. 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn to 

wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she charged 

them, " Out! 
And drive him from the walls.'' And out 

they came, 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they dash'd 
Against him one by one; and these return'd, 
But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate; and 
once, 

A week beyond, while walking on the walls 

With her three knights, she pointed down- 
ward, " Look, 

He haunts me — I cannot breathe — besieges 
me; 

Down! strike him! put my hate into youi 
strokes. 

And drive him from my walls." And down 
they went. 

And Pelleas overthrew them one by one; 

And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, 

" Bind him, and bring him in." 

He heard her voice; 
Then let the strong hand, which had over- 
thrown 
Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew 
Be bounden straight, and so they brought 
him m. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, the 

sight 

Of her rich beauty made him at one glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in his 

bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, " Behold 

me. Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my vows, 
And thou hast given thy promise, and 1 

know 
That all these pains are trials of my faith. 
And that thyself when thou hast seen me 

strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for thy 

knight." 



Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; 
But when she mock'd his vows and the 

great King, 
Lighted on words: " For pity of thine own 

self. 
Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and 

mine?" 
" Thou fool," she said, " I never heard 

his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind him 

now. 
And thrust him out of doors; for save he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, 
He will return no more." And those, her 

three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him from 

the gate. 

And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying, " There he watches 

yet. 
There like a dog before his master's door! 
Kick'd, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? 
Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at 

peace. 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and bed. 
No men to strike? P"all on him all at once. 
And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail. 
Give ye the slave mine order to be bound. 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: 
It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds." 

She spake; and at her will they couch'd 

their spears. 
Three against one : and Gawain passing by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of those 

towers 
A villany, three to one: and thro' his heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he call'd, " I strike upon thy 

side — 
The caitiffs!" " Nay," said Pelleas, " but 

forbear; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's will." 

So Gawain, looking at the villany done, 
Forebore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs and 
kills. 



364 



IDYLLS OF TLIE KING. 



And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 

three; 
And they rose up, and bound, and brought 

him in. 

Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burn'd 
Full on her knights in many an evil name 
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 

hound : 
" Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to 

touch, 
Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him 

out. 
And let who will release him from his 

bonds. 
And if he comes again "—there she brake 

short; 
And Pelleas ansvver'd, " Lady, for indeed 
I loved you and I deem'd you beautiful, 
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr'd 
Thro' evil spite: and if ye love me not, 
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn : 
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love. 
Than to be loved again of you — farewell; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my love, 
Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more." 

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the 

man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and 

thought, 
'• Why have I push'd him from me? this 

man loves. 
If love there be: yet him I loved not. 

Why? 
I deem'd him fool? yea, so? or that in him 
A something — was it nobler than myself? — 
Seem'd my reproach? He is not of my 

kind. 
He could not love me, did he know me well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And her 

knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden out 

of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him 
from his bonds. 
And flung them o'er the walls; and after- 
ward 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, 
" Faith of my body," he said, " and art 

thou not — 
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made 
Knight of his table; yea and he that won 
The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed 



Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest. 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?" 

And Pelleas answer'd, " O, their wills 

are hers 
For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mockery 

now. 
Other than when I found her in the woods; 
And tho' she hath me bounden but in spite, 
And all to flout me, when they bring me in. 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappiness." 

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' in 

scorn, 
" Why, let my lady bind me if she will, 
And let my lady beat me if she will: 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ kill 

me then 
But I will slice him handless by the wrist. 
And let my lady sear the stump for him, 
Howl as he. may. But hold me for your 

friend : 
Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my 

troth. 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy work. 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will 

say 
That I have slain thee. She will let me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; 
Then, when I come within her counsels, 

then 
From prime to vespers will I chant thy 

praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, more 
Than any have sung thee living, till she long 
To have thee back in lusty life again. 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds and 

warm. 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy 

horse 
And armor: let me go: be comforted: 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, and 

hope 
The third night hence will bring thee news 

of gold." 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his 
arms. 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and 
took 



PEL LEAS AND ETTARRE. 



365 



Gawain's, and said, " Betray nie not, bul 

help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light-of- 

love?" 

"Ay," said Gawain, "for women be so 

light." 

Then bounded forward to the castle walls, 
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, 
And winded it, and that so musically 
That all the old echoes hidden in the wall 
Rang out like hollow woods at hunting 

tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; 
" Avaunt," they cried, " our lady loves thee 

not." 
But Gawain lifting up his visor said, 
Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court. 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: 
Behold his hoise and armor. Open gate. 
And I will make you merry." 

And down they ran. 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, " Lo! 
Pelleas is dead— he told us — he that hath 
His horse and armor: will ye let him in? 
He slew him I Gawain, Gawain of the 

court. 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the wall. 
Blowing his bugle as who should say him 

nay." 

And so, leave given, straight on thro' 

open door 
Rude Gawain, whom she greeted cour- 
teously. 
" Dead, is it so?" she ask'd. " Ay, ay," 

said lie, 
" And oft in dying cried upon your name." 
" Pity on him," she answer'd, " a good 

knight. 
But never let me bide one hour at peace." 
" Ay," thought Gawain, "and ye be fair 

enow : 
But I to your dead man have given my 

troth. 
That whom ye loathe him will I make you 

love." 

So those three days, aimless about the 

land. 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought a 

moon 
With promise of large light on woods and 

ways. 



The night was hot: he could not rest, but 
rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his 

horse . 
Hard by the gates. Wide open were the 

gates. 
And no watch kept; and in thro' these he 

past. 
And heard but his own steps, and his own 

heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, 
And his own shadow. Then he crost the court. 
And spied not any light in hall or bower, 
But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and wild ones mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on, and found. 
Here too, all hush'd below the mellow moon. 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 
Came lightening downward, and so spilt it- 
self 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 

Then was he ware that white pavilions 

rose. 
Three from the bushes, gilden-peakt : in one. 
Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights 
Slumbering, and their three squires across 

their feet: 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels 

lay: 
And in the third, the circlet of the jousts 
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 

Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the 

leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what he 

fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court 

again. 
Fingering at his sword-handle until he 

stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, and 

thought, 
" I will go back, and slay them where they 

Jie." 

And so went back and seeing them yet in 
sleep 
Said, " Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep. 



366 



IDYLLS OF THE KLVG. 



Your sleep is death," and drew the sword, Dishonor'd all for trial of true love — 



and thought. 



Love? — we be all alike: only the king 



"What! slay a sleeping knight? the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble 

hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood "; again, O great and sane and simple race of brutes 



" Alas that ever a knight should be so false." 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groaning 

laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 

throats, 
There left it, and them sleeping; and she' Away — " 

lay. 
The circlet of the tourney round her brows, 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 



That own no lust because they have no law! 
For why should I have loved her to my 

shame? 
I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for her — 



He dash'd the rowel into his horse. 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the 
night. 



And forth he past, and mounting on his' Then she, that felt the cold touch on her 



horse 



throat, 



Stared at her towers that, larger than them- Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd her- 



sel\ 



If 



In their own darkness, throng'd into the|To Gawain: " Liar, for thou hast not slain 

This Pelleas! here he stooci and might have 

slain 
Me and thyself." And he that tells the tale 



moon. 
Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, 

and clench'd 
His hands, and madden'd with himself and Says that her evei-veering fancy turn'd 

moaned. jTo Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, 

jAnd only lover; and thro' her love her life 
" Would they have risen against me in Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain, 
their blood ! 

At the last day? I might have answer'd But he by wild and way, for half the 



them 



night, 



Even before high God. O towers so strong, And over hard and soft, striking the sod 
Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze From out the soft, the spark from off the 



The crack of earthquake shivering to your 
base 



hard. 
Rode till the star above the wakening sun, 



Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot Beside that tower where Percivale was 



roofs 



cowl'd, 



Bellowing, and cliarr'd you thro' and thro' Glanced from the rosy forehead of the 



within, 



dawn. 



Black as the harlot's heart — hollow as a For so the words were flash'd into his heart 



skull! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your eye- 
let-holes, 



He knew not whence or wherefore: " O 

sweet star. 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn." 



And whirl the dust of harlots round and And there he would have wept, but felt his 



round 



eyes 



In dung and nettles! hiss, snake- — I saw Harder and drier than a fountain bed 

him there — • In summer: thither came the village girls 

Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who And linger'd talking, and they come no 
yells more 

Here in the still sweet summer night, but I — Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it from tho 

I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd her 
fool? 



heights 
Again with living waters in the change 



Fool, beast — he, she, or I? myself most Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart 



fool; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — disgraced, 



Seem'd; but so weary were his limbs, that 
he, 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



367 



Ciasping, " Of Aithiu's hall am I, hut here, 
Here let me rest and die," cast himself 

down. 
And gulph'd his griefs in inmost sleep; so 

lay. 
Till shaken by a dream, that Ciawain fired 
The hall of ^lerlin, and tlie morning star 
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, and 

fell. 



He woke, and being ware of some one 
nigh. 
Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying 
"False! and 1 held thee pure as Guin- 
evere." 



But Percivale stood near him and replied, 
"Am I but false as. Gumevere is pure? 
Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being 

one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard 
That Lancelot " — there he check'd himself 

and paused. 



Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with 

one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound 

again. 
And pricks it deej^er: and he shrank and 

wail'd, 
" Is the Queen false?" and Percivale was 

mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held their 

vows?" 
And Percivale made answer not a word. 
"Is the king true?" "The king!" said 

Percivale. 
" Why then let men couple at once with 

wolves. 
What! art thou mad?" 



But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his 

horse 
And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he met 
A cripple, one that held a hand for alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarf- 
elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, the 
boy 



Paused not Init overrode him, shouting 

" False, 
And false with Gawain!"and so left him 

bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and 

wood 
Went ever streaming oy him till the gloom, 
That follows on the turning of the world, 
Darken'd the common path : he twitch'd 

the reins, 
And made his beast that better knew it, 

swerve 
Now oft it and now on; but when he saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Merlin 

built. 
Blackening against the dead-green stripes 

of even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groan'd, " ye build 

too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city gates 
Issued .Sir Lancelot riding airily. 
Warm with a gracious parting from the^ 

Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star 
And marvelling what it was: on whom the 

boy, 
Across the silent seeded meadow-grass 
Borne, clash'd: and Lancelot, saying, 

" What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so hard ?" 
" I have no name," he shouted, " ascourge 

am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table Round." 
"Yea, but thy name?" "I have many 

names," he cried: 
" I am wrath and shame and hate and evil 

fame, 
And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the 

Queen." 
" First over me," said Lancelot, " shalt 

thou pass." 
" Fight therefore," yell'd the other, and 

either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they closed, 

at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas floundering 

flung 
His rider, who called out from the dark 

field, 
" Thou art false as Hell: slay me: I have 

no sword." 
Then Lancelot, "Yea, between thy lips— 

and sharp; 



368 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



But here will I disedge it by thy death." 
" Slay then," he shriek'd, " my will is to 

be slain." 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fall'n. 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then 

spake: 
" Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy 

say." 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war-horse 

back 
To Canielot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while 
Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark 

field, 
And follow'd to the city. It chanced that 

both 
Brake into hall together, worn and pale. 
There with her knights and dames was 

Guinevere. 
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot 
So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 

him 
Who had not greeted her, but cast himself 
Down on a bench, hard-breathing. "Have 

ye fought?" 
She ask'd of Lancelot. " Ay, my Queen," 

he said. 



" And thou hast overthrown him?" " Ay, 

my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, "O young 

knight, 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee 

fail'd 
So far thou canst, not bide, unfrowardly, 
A fall from him?" Then, for he answer'd 

not, 
" Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the 

Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and let 

me know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd; and he, hissing, " I have no 

sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. The 

Queen 
Look'd hard upon -her lover, he on her; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to 

be: 
And all talk died, as in a grove all song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

prey. 
Then a long silence came upon the hall, 
And Modred thought, "The time is hard 
1 at hand." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in liis 

moods 
Had jiiade mock-kniglit^pf Arthur's Table 

Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellowing 

woods. 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall. 
And toward him from the Hall, with harp 

in hand. 
And from the crown thereof a carcanet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 
C)f Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 
Came Tristram, saying, " Why skip ye so, 

Sir Fool?" 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once 
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock 
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half- 
dead, 
From roots like some black coil of carven 

snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid- 
air 
Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree 
Rush'd over a rainy wind, and thro' the 

wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and 

tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous 

nest, 
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck. 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 
A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the 

Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly, 
And named it Nestling; so forgot herself 
A moment, and her cares; till that young 
life ^ ^ 

Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal 

cold 
Past from her; and in time the carcanet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of the 

child: 
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 
" Take thou the jewels of this dead inno- 
cence. 
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- 
prize." 
24 



To whom the King, " Pejlce to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor aiter death. 
Following thy will! but, () my Queen, 1 

muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone. 
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to 

wear." 

" Would rather ye had let them fall," she 

cried, 
" Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as they were, 
A bitterness to me! — ye look amazed. 
Not knowing they were lost as soon as 

given — 
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning 

out 
Above the river — that unhappy child 
Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go 
With these rich jewels, seeing that they 

came 
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer. 
But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 
Perchance — who knows? — the purest of thy 

knights 
May win them for the purest of my maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great joust 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways 
From Camelot in among the faded fields 
To furthest towers; and everywhere the 

knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. 

But on the hither side of that loud morn 
Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd 
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his 

nose 
Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand 

off. 
And one with shatter'd fingers dangling 

lame, 
A churl, to whom indignantly the King, 
" My churl, for whom Christ died, what 

evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or 

fiend? 
Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in 

thee thus? " 

(369) 



370 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splin- 

ter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt 

stump 
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the 

maini'd churl, 
" He took them and he drave them to his 

tower — * 

Some hold he was a table-knight of thine — 
A hundred goodly ones — the Red Knight 

he- 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red 

Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave me to his 

tower; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as one 
That doest right by gentle and by churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright 

have slain, 
Save that he sware me to a message, say- 
ing— 
' Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to it- 

and say 
My tower is full of harlots, like his court. 
But mine are worthier, seeing they profess 
To be none other than themselves — and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his own. 
But mine are truer, seeing they profess 
To be none other; and say his hour is come, 
The heathen are upon him, his long lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'" 

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, 
'* Take thou my churl, and tend him curi- 
ously 
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. 
The heathen — but that ever-climbing wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam. 
Hath lain for years at rest — and renegades, 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, 

whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of other- 
where, — 
Friends, thro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in the 

North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in whom 

your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds. 
Move with me toward their quelling, which 
achieved, 



The loneliest ways are safe from shore to 

shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot,. sitting in my place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle 

■ with it, 9 
Only to yield my Queen her own again? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it 
well?" 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, " It is 
well : 
Yet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his young knights to me. 
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well.'> • 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd 

him. 
And while they stood without the doors, the 

King 
Turn'd to him saying, " Is it then so well? 
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 
Of whom was written, 'a sound is in his 

ears ' — 
The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 

glance 
That only seems half-loyal to command, — 
A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence — 
Or have I dream'd the bearing of our 

knights 
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? 
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, up- 

rear'd. 
By noble deeds at one with noble \ o vs. 
From flat confusion and brute violences, 
Reel back into the beast, and be no more? " 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 

knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower the 

Queen, 
Working a tapestiy, lifted up her head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that 

she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the strange 

rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, " Where is he who 

knows? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 

goes." 

But when the morning of a tournament, 
By these in earnest, those in mockery, call'd 



THE. LAST TOURNAMENT. 



371 



The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, I 
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, 
Round whose sick head all night, like 

birds of prey, 
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, 
And down a streetway hung with folds of 

pure 
^Vhite samite, and by fountains running 

wine, 
Where children sat in white with cups of 

gold, 
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad 

steps 
Ascending, fiU'd his double-dragon'd chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately galleries, 
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their 

Queen 
White-robed in honor of the stainless child, 
And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank 
Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of tire. 
He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes 

again. . 



The sudden trumpet sounded as in 

dream 
To ears but half awaked, then one low roll 
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began; 
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower and 

shorn plume 
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, 
When all the goodlier guests are past away, 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled- the tournament 
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast 

down 
Before his throne of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the King; 
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, 
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the barriers 

roar 
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight 
But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest-green, whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, 
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield 
A spear a harp, a bugle — Tristram — late 
From overseas in Brittany return'd, 
And marriage with a princess of that realm 



Isolt the White — Sir Tristram of the 

Woods— 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime 

with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd to 

shake 

The burthen off his heart in one full shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his strong 

hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many of 

those 
That ware their ladies' colors on the casque. 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, 
And there with gibes and flickering mock- 
eries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! 

O shame! 
What faith have these in whom they sware 

to love? 
The glory of our Round Table is no more." 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the 
gems, 
Not speaking other word than " Hast thou 
won? 

Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand 

Wherewith thou takest this is red !" to whom 

Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's lan- 
guorous mood. 

Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me 
this 

Like a dry bone cast to some hungry 
hound? 

Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength 
of heart 

And might of limb, but mainly use and 
skill. 

Are winners in this pastime of our King. 

My hand — belike the lance hath dript up- 
on it — 

No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief 
knight. 

Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield. 

Great brother, thou nor I have made the 
world ; 

Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." 



And Tristram round the gallery made his 

horse 
Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly 

salying, 
"Fair damsels, each to him who worships 

each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold 



372 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



This day my Queen of Beauty is not here. "i Then Tristram saying, " Why skip ye so. 
Then most of these were mute, some an-' Sir Fool?" 

ger'd, one IWheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet 

Murmuring " All courtesy is dead," and, replied, 

one, i" Belike for lack of wiser company; 

'< The glory of the Round Table is no Or being fool, and seeing too much wit 

niore." Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip 

To know myself the wisest knight of all." 
Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and " Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating 

mantle clung, j •^''T 

And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
Went glooming down in wet and weariness: To dance to." Then he twangled on his 

But under her black brows a swarthy dame' harp, 

Laught shrilly, crying « Praise the patient And while he twangled little Dagonet 

saints, ] stood, 

Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Q"iet as any water-sodden log 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; 

l^g jl^ ; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; 

ThesnowdrqD only, flow'ringthro' the year, Then being ask'd, " Why skipt ye not, Sir 



Fool?' 
Made answer. 



■ I had liefer twenty years 



Would make the world as blank as winter- 
tide. 

Come— let us comfort their sad eyes, our -'^'op to the broken music of my brains^ 
Queen's "" """ ^""'^ "" «i..c-.^ -.ro ^-^-r. ,^,o .„ 

And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity 

With all the kindlier colors of the field." 



Than any broken music ye can make.' 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 
" Good now, what music have I broken, 

fool? " 
And little Dagonet, skipping, " Arthur, the 

king's: 
For when thou playest that air with Queen 

Isolt, 
.... Thou makest Ijroken music with thy bride, 

Palls on the mountain in midsummerHer daintier namesake down in Brittany- 



So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast 
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale 
Liken'd them, saying " as when an hour ofi 
cold 



snows. 

And all the purple slopes of mountain 
flowers 

Pass under white, till the warm hour re- 
turns I 

With veer of wind, and all are flowers' 
again"; 

So dame and damsel cast the simple white. 

And glowing in all colors, the live grass. 



And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." 
" Save for that broken music in thy brains, 
Sir Fool," said Tristram, " I would break 

thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were 

o'er, 
The life had flown, we sware but by the 

shell— 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool. 



Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy. Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean 

glanced nie down. 

About the revels, and with mirth so loud gjj. Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears. 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the ^nd hearken if my music be not true 

Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless 

jousts, 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her 

bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 



And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, 
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, 
Danced like a wiiker'd leaf before the hall. 



" ' Free love — free field — we love but 
while we may: 
The woods are hush'd, their music is no 

more; 
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost are 

. o'er: 
New life new love to suit the newer 
day: 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



373 



New loves are sweet as those that went 

before : 
Free love — free field — we love but while we 

may.' 

" Ye might have moved slow-measure to 

my tune, 
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the 

woods, 
And found it ring as true as tested gold." 

But Dagonet with one foot poised in his 
hand, 
«' Friend, did ye mark that fountain yes 

terday 
Made to run wine!— but this had run itself 
All out like a long life to a sour end — 
And them that round it sat with golden cups 
To hand the wine to whomsoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as Inno- 
cence, 
In honor of poor Innocence the babe. 
Who left the gems which Innocence the 

Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those white 

slips 
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 
' Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I 

drank. 
Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the draught 
was mud." 

And Tristram, " Was it muddier than 

thy gibes? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee? — 
Not marking how the knighthood mock 

thee, fool — 
' Fear God: honor the king — his one true 

knight — 
Sole follower of the vows ' — for here be 

they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I came. 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but when the 

King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less than 

swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold thee still. 
For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee 

swine." 

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 
*' Knight, an ye fling those rubies round 
my neck 



In lieu of hers, I '11 hold thou hast some 

touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. 
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd — 

the world — 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my day. 
The dirty nurse. Experience, in her kind 
Hath foul'd me^ — an I wallow'd, then I 

wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philosophies — • 
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's 

fool. 
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams, 

and geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who 

thrummed 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such fine song — but never a king's 

fool." 

And Tristram, " Then were swine, goats, 
asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of Hell.'' 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his 

foot, 
"And whither harp'st thou thine? down! 

and thyself 
Down! and two more: a helpful harper 

thou, 
That harpest downward! Dost thou know 

the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" 

And Tristram, " Ay, Sir Fool, for when 

our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, 
Glorying in each new glory, set his name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of 

heaven." 

And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when 

the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set 

yourself 
To babble about him, all to show youi" 

wit — 
And whether he were king by courtesy. 
Or king by right — and so went harping 

down 
The black king's highway, got so far, and 

grew 
So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and 

drakes 



374 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



^ 



With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. 
Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star? " 

"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in 

open day." 
And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will; I see it 

and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, | 

And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, [ 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he said, 

" ye talk 
Fool's treason: is the king thy brother' 

fool?" i 

Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and 



shrill'd, 



Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish 

king. 
With six or seven, when Tristram was 

away. 
And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading 

worse than shame 
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word. 
But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 



And now that desert lodge to Tristram 

lookt 
So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and 

sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; 



Ay, 



ay, my brother fool, the king oIjBut could not rest for musing how to 
fools! '^ ' 



smooth 
Conceits himself as God that he can make' ^nd sleek his marriage oyer to the Queen. 

Perchance in lone 1 intagil far from all 

not 



Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 
From burning spurge, honey from hornet- The tojjg^'^^^ters of the court she had 

But then what folly had sent him overseas 
After she left him lonely here? a name? 



ing 
combs. 
And men from beasts, 
of fools! " 



loney 

Long live the king 



And down the city Dagonet danced 

away. 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the 

west. 
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or 

flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
Unruffling waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. 

At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the 

which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge with 

him: 



Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt 
Of the white hands" they call'd her; the 

sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid herself, 
Who served him well with those white hands 

of hers, 
And loved him well, until himself had 

thought 
He loved her also, wedded easily. 
But left her all as easily, and return'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes 
Had drawn him home — what marvel? then 

he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and 

both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. 
Then cried the Breton, " Look, her hand is 

red! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen blood. 
And melts within her hand — her hand is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, 
Is all as cool and white as any flower." 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings and then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the child, 
Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



375 



He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred 

spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, 
And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, 
llie wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh 
G ared on a huge machicolated tower 
1 hat stood with open doors, whereout was 

roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 
" Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for 

there. 
High on a grim dead tree before the tower, 
A goodly brother of The Table Round 
Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a 

shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field noir. 
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur. 
Till each would clash the shield, and blow 

the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back; alone he 

rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great 

horn. 
That sent the face of all the marsh aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, 

and all. 
Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm. 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the 

King, 

" The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash 

thee flat! — 
Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from the 

world — • 
The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, 

and I! 
SJain was the brother of my paramour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard her 

whine 
And snivel, being eunuch hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in 

hell, 
And stings itself to everlasting death. 
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King? — Look to 

thy life!" 



He ended ; 
face 



Arthur knew the voice; the 



Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling in his 

mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of word or 

sword, 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from 

horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to the 

swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 

wave 
Heard in dead night along that table-shore 
Drops flat, and after the great waters break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves 
Far over sands marbled with moon and 

cloud. 
From less and less to nothing; thus he fell 
Head-heavy, while the knights, who 

watch'd him, roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the 

fall'n; 
There trampled out his face from being 

known. 
And sank his head in mire, and slimed 

themselves: 
Nor heard the King for their own cries, 

but sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right and 

left 
Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd 
The tables over and the wines, and slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells. 
And all the pavement stream'd with mas- 
sacre: 
Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the 

tower. 
Which half that autumn night, like the live 

North, 
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred meres 
About it, as the water Moab saw 
Come round by the East, and out beyond 

them flush'd 
The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore to 
shore. 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. 

Then out of Tristram waking the red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge re- 
turn'd, 



376 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. 
He whistled his good war-horse lel't to graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, 
And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, 
Stay'd him. " Why weep ye?" " Lord," 

she said, " my man 
Math left me or is dead; " whereon he 

thought — 
" What an she hate me now? I would not 

this. 
What an she love me still? I would not 

that. 
I know not what I would" — but said to 

her, — 
" Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return. 
He find thy favor changed and love thee 

not " — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse 
Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly 

hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and 

gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 
A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair 
And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen 
And when she heard the feet of Tristram 

grind 
The spiring stone that scaled about her 

tower, 
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and 

there 
Belted his body with her white embrace. 
Crying aloud, "Not Mark — not Mark, my 

soul ! 
The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: 
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, 
liut warrior-wise thou stridest through his 

halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my Marl 
(Quicken within me, and knew that thou 

wert nigh." 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, " I am here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward she 

replied, 
" Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n hi 

own, 
J5ut save for dread of thee had beaten me. 



Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me some- 
how — Mark? 

What rights are his that dare not strike for 
them? 

Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found me thus ! 

But hearken, have ye met him? hence he 
went 

To-day for three days' hunting — as he said — 

And so returns belike within an hour. 

Mark's way, my soul I — but eat not thou 
with him. 

Because he hates thee even more than fears; 

Nor drink: and when thou passest any 
wood 

Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush 

Should leave me all alone with Mark and 
hell. 

My God, the measure of my hate for Mark 

Is as the measure of my love for thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by 

love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and 

spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 
" O hunter, and O blower of the horn. 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover too. 
For, ere I mated with my shamlding king. 
Ye twain had fallen out about the bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the prize, 
If prize she were — (what marvel — she could 

see) — 
Thine, friend; and ever since my craven 

seeks 
To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir 

Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ve kneeled to 

last?" 

And Tristram, " Last to my Queen 
Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, 
And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, 
.Sailing from Ireland." 

Softly laugh'd Isolt, 
"Flatter me not, for hath not our great 

Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, 
" Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine. 
And thine is more to me — soft, gracious, 

kind- 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips 



THE LAST rOURNAMENT. 



377 



Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to 

him, 
Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom Isolt, 
" Ah then, false hunter and false harper, 

thou 
Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me 
That (Juinevere had sinned against the liigh- 

est, 
And I— misyoked with such a want of man — 
That I could hardly sin against the lowest." 

He answered, " O my soul, be comforted ! 
If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings. 
If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 
Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin 
That made us happy; but how ye greet me — 

fear 
And fault and doubt — no word of that fond 

tale — 
Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet mem- 
ories 
Of Tristram in that year he was away." 

And, saddening on the sudden, spake 

Isolt, 
"I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings? — ay I for, hour by 

hour. 
Here in the never-ended afternoon, 
(J sweeter than all memories of thee, 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
.Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling 

seas 
Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain 

dash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand. 
Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? 

Wedded her? 
Fought in her father's battles? wounded 

there? 
The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness. 
And she, mv namesake of the hands, that 

heal'd 
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 

caress — 
W^ell — can I wish her any huger wrong 
Than having known thee? her too hast thou 

left 
To pine and waste in those sweet memories? 
U were I not my Mark's, by whom all men 



Are noble, I should hate thee more than 
love." 

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, 

replied, 
" (Jrace, Queen, for being loved: she loved 

me well. 
Did I love her? the name at least I loved. 
Isolt?' — I fought his battles, for Isolt! 
The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! 

The name was ruler of the dark- Isolt? 

Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, 

meek, 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.'' 

And Isolt answer'd," Yea, and why not I? 
Mine is the larger need, who am not meek. 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee 

now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer night I .= at 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering 

where. 
Murmuring a light song I had heard thee 

sing. 
And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. 
Then tlash'd a levin-brand; and near me 

stood. 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend — 
Mark's way to ste^l behind one in the dark — 
For there was Mark; ' He has wedded her,' 

he said, 
Not said, but hissed it: then this crown of 

towers 
.So shook to such a roar of all the sky, "^ 
That here in utter dark I swoon'd away. 
And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 
' I will flee hence and give myself to God' — 
And thou wert lying in thy new leman's 

arms." 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her 

hand, 
" May God be with me, sweet, when old 

and gray. 
And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. 
" ' May God be with thee, sweet, when 

thou art old, 
And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. 
For vVhen had Lancelot utter'd aught so 

gross 
Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? 
The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild, 

Ijeasts — 
.Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance 



378 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Becomes thee well — art grown wild beast 

thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me far 
In the gray distance, half a life away. 
Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, un- 

swear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, 
Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I should 

suck 
Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. 
Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye 

kneel. 
And solemnly as when ye sware to him, 
The man of men, our King — My God, the 

the power 
Was once in vows when men believed the 

King! 
They lied not then, who sware, and thro' 

their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm: — I 

say. 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when 

old, 

Gray-haired, and past desire, and in de- 
spair." 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and 
down, 
" Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to 

Mark 
More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, 

but learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps it- 
self— 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, being 

snapt — 
We run more counter to the soul thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. 
I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I honor'd 

him. 
' Man, is he man at all?' niethought, when 

first 
I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and be- 
held 
That victor of the Pagan throned in hall — 
Ilis hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel- 
blue eyes, 
The golden beard that clothed his lips with 

light- 
Moreover, that weird legend of his birth. 
With Merlin's mystic babble about his end, 



Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool 
Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd tome no 

man. 

But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware, 
Being amazed: but this went by — the vows! 
O ay — the wholesome madness of an hour — 
They served their use, their time; for every 

knight 
Believed himself a greater than himself, 
And every follower eyed him as a God; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself. 
Did mightier deeds than elsewhere he had 

done. 
And so the realm was made; but then 

their vows — 
First mainly thro' that sullying of our 

Queen — 
Began to gall the knighthocj^, asking 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to himself ? 
Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from 

out the deep? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and 

blood 
Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubt- 
ful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
Which flesh and blood perforce would vio- 
late: 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide within 
Red with free chase and heather-scented 

air 
Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure 
As any maiden child! lock up my tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely hear? 
Bind me to one? The great world laughs 

at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour 
Wooes his own end; we are not angels 

here 
Nor shall be; vows — I am woodman of 

the woods. 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale 
Mock them: my soul, *we love but while 

we may; 
And therefore is my love so large for thee, 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love." 

Here ending, he moved toward her, and 
she said, 
" Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as thyself — 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 
As valor may — but he that closes both 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



379 



Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller indeed, 
Rosier, and comelier, thou — but say I loved 
This knightliest of knights, and cast thee 

back 
Thine own small saw ' We love but while 

we may,' 
Well then, what answer?" 

^He that while she spake. 
Mindful of what* he brought to adorn her 

with, 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, re- 
plied, 
'' Press this a little closer, sweet, until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd — 

meat, 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to the 

deat^. 
And out beyond into the dream to come. 

So then, when both were brought to full 

accord. 
She rose, and set before him all he will'd; 
And after these had comforted the blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated their 

hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland paradise, 
The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, 

the lawns; 
Now mocking at the much ungainliness, 
And craven shifts, and long crane legs of 

Mark- 
Then Tristram laughing caught the harp 

and sang: 

" Ay, ay, O ay— the winds that bend the 

brier! 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire. 
And one w as far apart, and one was near 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow the 

grass! 



And one was water and one star was fire. 
And one will ever shine and one will pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move the 
mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram 

show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, 
" The collar of some order, which our King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul. 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy 

peers." 

"Not so, my Queen," he said, " but the 
red fruit 
Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, 
And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, 
And hither brought by Tristram for his last 
Love-offering and peace-oftering unto thee.' 

He rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her 
neck, 
Claspt it, but while he bow'd himself to lay 
Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat. 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd. 
Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek — 
" Mark 's way," said Mark, and clove him 
thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and while 

he climb'd. 
All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping 

gloom, 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd and 

saw 
Tlie great Queen's bower was dark, — about 

his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, 
" What art thou?" and the voice about his 

feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, " I am thy fool. 
And I shall never make thee smile again." 



GUINEVERE. 



Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and 

sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid 
A novice: one low light betwixt them burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, lor all abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face. 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was 

still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
-Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this. 
Me chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the White 

Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and 

sought 
To make disruption in the Tabic Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all 

the court, 
Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd 

the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and re- 

turn'd. 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Clinib'd to the high top of the garden-wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might. 
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst; and more than 

this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch'd, and as the gar- 
dener's hand 
Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar. 
So from the high wall and the flijwering 

grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the 

heel. 
And cast him as a worm upon the way; 
l)Ut when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd 

with dust, 

(380) 



He, reverencing king'5 blood in a bad man. 
Made such excuses as he might, and these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in those 

days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in 

scorn ; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 
By those whom God had made fuU-limb'd 

and tall. 
Scorn was allowed as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Taljle. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or 

thrice • 

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, 

and went: 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart. 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when .Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall. 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who' 

cries 
" I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave"; 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast,. 
Would track her gudt until he found, and 

hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front ini 

Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eyei. 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the 

soul. 
To help it from the death that cannot die,. 
And save it, even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for' 

hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the King,. 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual. fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creaking; 

doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted house. 



GUINEVERE. 



381 



That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 
Held her awake; or if she slept, she dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun, 
And from the sun there swiftly made at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 
Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 
When lo! her own, that broadening from 

her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and 

in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but grew; 
Tillev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life. 
Became her bane; and at the last she said, 
"O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own 

land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again, some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal break 

and blaze 
Before the people, and our loi;d the King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd. 
And still they met and met. Again she 

said, 
" O Lancelot,, if thou love me get thee 

hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a night 
(When the good King should not be there) 

to meet 
And part for ever. Passion -pale they met 
And greeted: hands in hands, and eye to 

eye, 
Low on the border of her coiich they sat 
Stammering and staring: it was their last 

hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the tower 
For testimony; and crying with full voice 
" Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last," 

aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, 

and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare 

him off 
And all was still: then she, " the end is 

come 
And I am shamed for ever;" and he said 
"Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: 

but rise. 
And fiy to my strong castle overseas: 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, 



There hold thee with my life against the 

world." 
She answer'd " Lancelot, wilt thou hold me 

so? 
Nay friend, for we 1 ave taken our fare- 
wells. 
Would God, that thou couldst hide me 

from myself! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 
Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot got 

her horse. 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, 
And then they rode to the divided way. 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he 

past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 
Back to his land; but she to Alniesbury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste 

and weald. 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and 

weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan; 
And in herself she moan'd " too late, too 

late!" 

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, "he spies a field 

of death; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of the 

court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land." 

And when she came to Almesbury she 

spake 
There to the nuns, and said, " mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you"; and her beauty, grace, and 

power 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they 

spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the 

nuns; " 

Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, 

nor sought. 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid. 



382 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



Who pleased her with a babbling heedless- 
ness I 

Which often lured her from herself; but 
now, 

This night, a rumor wildly blown about 

Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the 
realm, 

And leagued him with the heathen, while 
the King 

Was waging war on Lancelot: then she 
thought. 
With what a hate the people and the King 



" O pray you, noble lady, weep no more; 
But let my words, the words of one so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow 
From evil done; right sure am I of that, 
Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the 

King's, 
And weighing find them less; for gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot 

there, 



Must hate me," and bow'd down upon her: Round that strong castle where he holds the 

hands Queen; 

Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd I And Modred whom he left in charge of all, 
No silence, brake it, uttering <'late! sojThe traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's 

late! j grief 

What hour, I wonder, now!" and when she For his own self, and his own Queen, and 

drew realm. 

No answer, by and by began to hum Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 

An air the nuns had taught her; "late, so For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. 



late !' 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd 

up, and said, 
" O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.'' 
WJiereat full willingly sang the little maid. 

" Late, late, so late! and dark the night 
and chill ! 
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light had we: for that we do repent; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will re- 
lent. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light : so late ! and dark and chill the 
night! 
O let us in, that we may find the light! 
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. 

" Flave we not heard the bridegroom is so 
sweet? 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss ^is feet! 
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full passion 

ately. 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the 

sad Queen. 



For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have done: 
None knows it, and my tears have brought 

me good: 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this 

grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep l^ehind a cloud: 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, 
But were I such a King, it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the 

Queen. 
" Will the child kill me with her innocent 

talk?" 
But openly she answer'd "must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all the 

realm? " 

"Yes," said the maid, "this is all wo- 
man's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years 

ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 



Then said the little novice prattling to her. | At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." 




'« W/iile he past the dim-lit -woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall xvayside floxver ." 

Guinevere, Page 383. 



GUIXEVEKE. 



l^l 



Then thought the Queen within herself 

again; 
" Will the child kill me with her foolish 

prate? " 
But openly she spake and said to her, 
" O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables 

Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And siniule miracles of thy nunnery? " 



To whom the little novice garrulously. 
" Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight . 
Of the great Table— at the founding of it; 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he 

said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused and turning — 

there, 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet 
He saw them- — headland after headland 

flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west: 
And in the light the white mermaiden swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood from 

the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land. 
To vi'hich the little elves of chasm and cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
So said my father — yea, and furthermore. 
Next morning, when he past the dim-lit 

woods. 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle 

shakes 

When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelotj 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 



.Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 
While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and 

mer 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat 
bitterly. 

'< Were they so glad? ill prophets were they 
all. 

Spirits and men: could none of them fore- 
see. 

Not even thy wise father with his signs 

And wonders, what has fall'n upon the 
realm? " 



To whom the novice garrulously again. 
" Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 

And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like 

flame: 
So said my father — and that night the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the 

King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at 

those 
Who call'd.him the false son of Gorlois: 
For there was no man knew from whence 

he came; 
But after tempest, when the long wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of Budeand 

Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea; 
And that was Arthur; and they foster'd him 
Till he by miracle was approven king: 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth; and could he 

find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, 
The twain together well might change the 

world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hands fell from the harp. 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would 

have fall'n. 
But that they stay'd him up; nor would he 

tell 



384 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



His vision; but what doubt tliat he foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?" 

Then thought the Queen " lo! they have 

set her on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me," and bow'dher head nor 

spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, 
Said the good nuns would check her gad- 
ding tongue 
Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told, check me too: 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back, 
And left me; but of others who remain. 
And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while 

you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 

King?" 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and an 
swer'd her. 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-fiekl 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most noble-mannered men of a 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, " lie manners such 
fair fruit? 

Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand- 
fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in all the world.' 

To which a mournful answer made the 

Queen. 
" O closed about by narrowing nunnery 

walls, 
What knowest thou of the world, and all 

its lights 



And shadows, all the wealth and all the 

woe? 

If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than himself, 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire. 
And weep for her, who drew him to his 

doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, "I pray 

for both; 
But I should all as soon l)elieve that his. 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours would 

be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where 

she would heal; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who 
' cried, 

" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of an- 
ger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose. 
White as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
And when the Queen had added "get thee 

hence " 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 
Saying in herself " the simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to 

us: 
And I have sworn never to see him more, 
To see him more" 

And ev'n in saying this, 
IJer memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot 

came. 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 



GUINEVERE. 



385 



Arthur, and led her forth, and far aliead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the 

time 
Was May time, and as yet no sin was 

dream'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' 

the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before; and on again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such a 

trance. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously, 
Came to that point where first she saw the 

King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to 

find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought 

him cold. 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not 

like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot " — while she brood- 
ed thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again. 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro'' the nunnery 

ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, " the King." She 

sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed 

feet 

Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she 

fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against the 

floor: 
There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy 

hair 
She made her face a darkness from the 

King: 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her; then came silence, then a 

voice, 
25 



Monotonous and hollow like a Chost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed the 
King's. 

" Liest thou here so low, the child of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and 

fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea. 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right 

arm , 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from w hence I come 

— from him, 
From waging bitter war with him : and he, 
That did not shun to smite me in worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight: but many a knight 

was slain; 
And many more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred raised re- 
volt. 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part. 
True men who love me still, for whom I live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on. 
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 
Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my 

death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my 

doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me. 
That I the King should gieatly care to live; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast 

sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 
Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a 

deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 
The realms together under me, their Head, 
In that fair order of my Table Round 



386 



IDYLLS OF THE klXC. 



A glorious company, the flower of men, 
To serve as model for the mighty world, 
And be tlie f?ir beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine and 

swear 
To reverence the King, as if he weie 
Their conscience, and their conscience as 

their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs. 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her: for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought, and amiable words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
And all this throve until I wedded thee I 
Believing, ' lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.' 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; 
Then others, following these my mightiest 

knights. 

And drawing foulensample from fair names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain. 
And all thro' thee! so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and 

wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live. 
To sit once more within his lonely hall. 
And miss the wonted number of my knights. 
And miss to liear liigh talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, wlio might be left, could 

speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at 

thee? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room to 

room. 
And I should evermore be ve.xt with thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament. 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For fhink not, tho' thou wouldst not love 

thy lord. 
Thy lord has wiiolly lost his love for thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Vet must 1 leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 



I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who either for his own or children's sake, 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the 

wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the 

house: 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to men. 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd. 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and 

■ saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 

young. 
Worst ot the worst were that man he that 

reigns! 
Better the King's waste hearth and aching 

heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people, and their bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she crept 

an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse 

neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again. 

" Yet think not that I come to urge thy 

crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head. 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on 

that fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(W'hen first I learnt thee hidden here) is 

past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy 

heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 
A.nd all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved? 
O golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 



GUINEVERE, 



387 



I cannot touch thy lips, tliey are not mine, 
But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the 

King's.- 
I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine 

own flesh. 

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 
' I loathe thee': yet not less, O Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
We two may meet before high God, and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me tliine, and 

know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I 

hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet 

blow: 
They summon me their King to lead mine 

hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west. 
Where I must strike against the man they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who leagues 
With lords of the White Horse, heathen, and 

knights — 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet 

myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the 

event; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more. 
Farewell!" 

And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her 

neck. 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head, 
Perceived the waving of his hands that 

blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps 

were gone. 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish 

found 
The casement: " peradventure " so she 

thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! 



And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the 

Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was 

lower'd. 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain; so she did not see the face. 
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights. 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. 
And even then he turn'd; and more and 

more 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in. it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him 

gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghosthke to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried 

aloud 
"O Arthur!" there her voice brake sud- 
denly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a 

cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone — my lord! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell? I should have answer'd his 

farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the 

King, 
My own true lord! how dare I call him 

mine? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me. 
And makes me one pollution: he, the King, 
Call'd me polluted: shall I kill myself? 
What help in that? I cannot kill my sin, 
If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame: 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to 

months. 
The months will add themselves and make 

the years. 
The years will roll into the centuries. 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be; that is but of the world. 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



What else? what hope? I think there was 

a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of 

hope; 
His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath for- 
given 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord. 
Who wasi, as is the conscience of a saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that 

took 
Full easily all impressions from below. 
Would not look up, or half-despised the 

height 
To which I would not or I could not climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art. 
Thou art the highest and most human too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life. 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God, 
W^hat might I not have made of thy fair 

world. 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest: 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we 

see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes: she look'd 

and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to 

her 
" Yea, little maid, for am /not forgiven?" 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping; and her heart was 

loosed 



Within her, and she wept with these and 
said. 

"Ye know me then, that wicked one,| 
who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery- 

walls. 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying i 
'shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun like 

you; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your 

feasts; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at 

your joys. 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; 
Pray and be pray'd foi ; lie before your 

shrines; 
Do each low office of your holy house; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
To poor sick people, richer in his eyes 
Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal 

mine own; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 

King." 

She said: they took her to themselves; 

and she 
Still hoping, fearing " is it yet too late?" 
Dealt with them, till in time their Abbess 

died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pure 

life, 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had 

borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, 

past 
To where beyond these voices there is 

peace. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
First made and latest left of all the knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than a 

voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other 

minds. 

Before that last weird battle in the west 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain 

kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

■ . blown 

Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
'Went shrilling " Hollow, hollow all de- 

light! 
Hail, king! to-morrow thou shall pass 

■ away. 

Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. 
And I am 1 lown along a wandering wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." 
And fainter onward, like wild birds that 

change 
Their season in the night and wail their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind 

the dream 
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim 

cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills. 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night, 
"When all is lost, and wife and child with 

wail 
Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and 

call'd, 

" " Who spake? A dream. O light upon 

the wind. 
.Thine, Gawain, was the voice— are these 

dim cries 
Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste 

and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me? " 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and 

spake: 
" O me, my king, let pass whatever will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the 

field; 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. 



Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; 
And care not thou for dreams from him, but 

rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west. 
And with him many of thy people and 

knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but 

grosser grown 
Than heathen, .spitting at their vows and 

thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for the 

king. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove in 

youth. 
And brake the petty kings, and fought with 

Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall. 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom 

is mine 
To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people fights him- 
self. 
And they my knights, who loved me once, 

the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I 

saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the world." 

Then rose the king and moved his host 

by night. 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by 

league. 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, 
And the long mountains ended in a coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no more. 
And he that fled no further fly the king; 



(389) 



390 



IDYLLS OF THE KIXG. 



And there, that day when the gieat light Swaying the helpless hands, and up and 

of heaven down 

Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, | Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, 



On the waste sand by the waste sea they 

closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 
A death white mist slept over sand and sea: 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, 

drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart was 

cold 

With formless fear: and ev'n on Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought, 



And shiver'd brands that once had fought 

with Rome, 
And rolling far along tlie gloomy shores 
The voice of days of old and days to be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King: 

" Hearest thou this great voice that shakes 
the world, 



For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,l ^nd wastes the narrow realm whereon we 
And friend slew friend not knowing whom 

he slew; 
And some had visions out of golden youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 
Look in upon the battle; and in the mist 



move. 
And beats upon the faces of the dead. 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be king. 
Behold, I seem but king among the dead." 



Was many a noble deed, many a base, 
And chance and craft and strength in single 

fights, 
And ever and anon with host to host ^, , , , , , r.- t, i- k. 

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: " My 

mail hewn, „. '"S .1 j i i 

Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, I^'^S everywhere! and so the dead have 

the crash I ^''"§^' 

Ofbattle-axesonshatter'dhelms,andshriekslTliere also will I worship thee asking. 

After the Christ, of those who falling downj^f,^ ^V^^ thy life is whole and still I live 
Looked up forheaven,andonlysawthe mist; Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that 

And shouts of heathen and the traitor' , , brought 

kniwhts I The heathen back among us, yonder stands, 

Oaths, instilt/ filth, and monstrous bias- ^odred, unharm'd, the traitor of thin. 

phemies, I J^°"^^'- 

Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of thej 

j^,„„g I Then spake the King; " My house hath 

In that close mist, and cryings for the light,' been my doom. 

Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. But call not thou this traitor of my house 

I Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with 
Last, as by some one deathbed after wail; nie. 

Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death' My house are rather they who sware my 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, ! vows. 

Save for some whisper of the seething seas, I Yea, even while they brake them, own'd 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous day! me king. 

Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew When all the purport of my throne hath 
The mist aside, and with that wind the; fail'd, 

tide 'That quick or dead thou boldest me for 

Rose, and the pale king glanced across the 

field 



kin<; 



Of battle: but no man was moving there; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 



King am \, whatsoever be their cry; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the king 
Made at the man: then Modred smote his 
lieg» 




' ' An arm 
Hose up from out ike bosom of the lake. 
Clothed ill white samite, mystic, 'wonderful. 
Holding the sword." 

The Passing of Arthur, Page 391, 



THE PASS/AG OF ARTUL-R. 



39' 



Hard on that helm which many a heathen Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm — 
sword 'A little thing may harm a wounded man; 



Had beaten thin; while Arthur atone l)low,,Vet I thy hest will all perform at lull. 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, jWatch what I see, and lightly bring 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.! ^ " 



thee 



word.' 



So all day long the noise of battle roil'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man liy man. 
Had fall'n in I.yonncsse about their lord, 
King Arthur. Then, because his wound 

■vAs deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land: 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a 

sleep 
They sleep — the'inen I loved. I think that 

we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more; but let what will be, be. 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest 

how 
In those old days, one summer neon, an 

arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere: 
Watch what thou scest, and lightly bring 

me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
*■ \t is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 
thus, 



So saying, from theruin'd shrine hestept. 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hilt; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I 

gave? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast 

heard? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale: 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere, 



392 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



This IS a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 
word." 



Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud: 



" And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many 

men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done? 
What harm, undone? Deep harm to dis- 
obey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? But were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the after- 
time 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were 
lost." 



So spake he, clouded with his own con- 
ceit, 
Anfl hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 
King. 



Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heav- 
ily: 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast 
heard?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' 



To whom replied King Arthur, much in 

wrath : * 

" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 

hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence: 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 



Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd 

in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



393 



Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker 

breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- 
ing him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 

Three times, and drew him under in the 
mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing 

hard: 
" My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half 

rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not 

words; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one 

knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs_ 



But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted 

hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
"When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the 

King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, 

quick! 



I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge, 
Cloth'd with his breath, and looking, as he 

walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a 

goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as 

he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a suddan, lo! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the 

barge "; 
So to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands, 
And call'd him Ijy his name, complaining 

loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was 

white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east; 



394 



IDYLLS OF THE KIXG. 



And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd 

with dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 

his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 



Then loudly cried the hold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dis- 
solved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 



And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge: 
" The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new. 
And God fulhls himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done • 

May He within himself make pure! but 

thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let 

thy voice 



Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or g(iats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou secst — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded withadoubt) — 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and 
sail 

Moved from the brink, like some fuU- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 
flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedi- 
vere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of 
dawn , 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 

At length he groan'd, and turning slowly 

clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron crag; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, 

and cried, 
" He passes to be king among the dead, 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no more — 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black 

boat. 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat 

we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with living 

light. 
They stood before his throne in silence, 

friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at hig 

need?" 



TO THE QUEEX. 



395 



Then from the dawn it secm'd there E'en 
came, but faint 



to the highest he could climb, and 
saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the 

king, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
Thereat once more he moved about, and | And the new sun rose bringing the new 
clomb j year. 



As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



EPILOGUE TU THE IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee — 
Bear witness, that rememberable day. 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life 

again 
From half-way down the shadow of the 

grave. 
Fast with thee thro' thy people and their 

love. 
And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of 

man 
And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, 
The prayer of many a race and creed, and 

clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking under sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 
A strain to shame us " keep you to your- 
selves; 
So loyal is too costly! friends — your love 
Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go." 
Is this the tone of empire? here the faith 
That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hougou- 

mont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that she 

should speak 



So feebly? wealthier — wealthier — hour by 

hour? 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among her 

seas? 
I'licre rang her voice, when the full city 
I , peal'd 

Thee and the Prince! The loyal to their 
I crown 

iAre loyal to their own far sons, who love 
[Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her 

throne 
In our vast Orient, and one i^le, one isle, 
That knows not her own greatness: if she 

knows 
And dreads it we are fall'n. — But thou, my 

Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale. 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at warwitK 

Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose name, a 

ghost, 
Streams like a cloud, man -shaped, from 

mountain peak. 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or 

him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one 
Touch'd by the "adulterous finger of a time 
That hover'd between war and wantonness, 



396 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 



And crownings and dethronements- take 

withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 
Will blow the tempest in the distance back 
From thine and ours: foi some are scared, 

who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm. 
Waverings of every vane with every wind. 
And wordy trucklings to the transient hour. 
And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, 
And Softness breeding scorn of simple life. 
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, 
Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice, 
Or Art, with poisonous honey stol'n from 

France, 



And that which knows, but careful for it- 
self, 

And that which knows not, ruling that which 
knows 

To its own harm : the goal of this great 
world 

Lies beyond sight: yet — if our slowly-grown 

And crown'd Republic's crowning common 
sense. 

That saved her many times, not fail — their 
fears 

Are morning shadows huger than the shapes 

That cast them, not those gloomier which 
forego 

The darkness of that battle in the West, 

Where all of high and holy dies away. 



THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH. 



The Son of him with whom we strove for 
power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst his 
chain — 
Has given our Prince his own Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a people's 
pride. 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to 

blow! 
From love to love, from home to home 
you go. 
From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 



The golden news along the steppes is blown, 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are 

stirred; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard; 
And all the sultry palms of India known, 

^ Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea. 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, 
Marie-Alexandrovna ! 



Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life ! 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 

swords; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar 
hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, 
Alexandrovna 



For thrones and peoples are as waifs that 

swing. 

And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow; 

But who love best have best the grace to 

know 

That Love by right divine is deathless king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna 1 



And love has led thee to the stranger land. 
Where men are bold and strongly say 

their say; — 
See empire upon empire smiles to-day, 
As thou with thy young lover hand in hand, 
Alexandrovna! 
So now thy fuller life is in the W'est, 

Whose hand at home was gracious to thy 

poor : 
Thy name was blest within the narrow 
door; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 
Marie-Alexandrovna! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again? 

Or at thy coming. Princess, everywhere, 

The blue heaven break, and some diviner 

air 

Breathe thro' the world and change the 

hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna? 
But hearts that change not, love that can- 
not cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul in 

soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may roll. 
Between your peoples truth and manful 
peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna I 



(397) 



39^ 



IX THE GARDEN AT SIVAINSTON. 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales warbled without — 
Within was weeping foi- thee; 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walked in the walks with me; 

Shadows of three dead men, 

And thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in Jhe woods — 
The master was far away; 



Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day; 

Still in the house in his coffin 
The prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 

In courtesy like to thee; 
Two dead men have I loved 

With a love that ever will be; 
Three dead men h'ave I loved, 

And thou art last of the three. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 




ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



I. 
And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy, and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a mar. 
And SVilly's wife has written: she never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save. 
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one. 
Eh! — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 

III. 
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; 
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock. 
" Here's a leg for a babe of a week! " says doctor; and he would be bound, 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 

IV. 
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue! 
I ought to have gone before him; I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 

V. 
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; 
(Jnly at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be conning and slandering me, the base little liar! 
But the tongue is 2 fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a hre. 
' 26 (401) 



402 THE GRANDMOTHER. 

VIII. 

And the parson made it his text that weel<, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 

X. 

And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 

XI. 

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he did n't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 

XII. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. 
And I said, " Let us part: in a hundred years it '11 all be the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

XIII. 
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine: 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand: we too shall be happy still." 

XIV. 
" Marry you, Willy! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind, 
And I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 



That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 403 

XVII. 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain: 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn: 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 

XVIII, 

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay: 
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way: 
Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 
And he died, and I could not weep — ^my own time seem'd so near. 

XIX. 

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died: 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: 
Pattering over the lioards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team: 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

XXII. 
And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five: 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 

XXIII. 
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 

XXIV. 
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad: 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 

XXV. 

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain. 
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



404 NORTHERN FARMER. 

XXVI. 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? 

XXVII. 
And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE. 
I. 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan? 
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy. Doctor's abean an' agoiin: 
Says that I moiint 'a naw moor aale: but I beant a fool: 
Git ma my aiile, for I beiint a-gooin' to break my rule. 

II. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true: 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' a;lle ivry noight sin' I beitn 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 

III. 
Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 
" The amoighty's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in bond; 
I done my duty by 'm, as I 'a done by the lond. 

IV. 
Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's bairn. 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an staate, 
An' i' the waost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 

v. 
An' I hallus coomed to's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead. 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock* ower my 'end. 
An' I niver knaw'd whot ameitn'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to sa-y, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awa.Hy. 

VI. 

Bessy Marris's bairn! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt 'a beiin, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'm, I kep 'm, my lass, tha mun nnderstond; 
I done my duty by 'm as I 'a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a conies an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'isscn, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saay men be loiars, thaw suinmun said it in 'aaste: 

But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 

* Cockchafer. 



NOF THERX FARMER. 



405 



VIII. • 

D'ya moiud the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd 'm mysen; 

Moast loike a butter-bump,* for I 'eerd 'm aboot an' aboot, 

Ikit I stubb'd 'm oop \vi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'm oot. 

IX. 

KeJiper's it wur; fo' they fun 'm theer a-laiiid on 'is faiice 
Doon i' the woild 'enemiesf afoor I coomed to the plailce. 
Noitks or Thimbleby — toaner 'ed shot 'm as dead as a naiiil. 
Noiiks wur 'ang'd fur it oop at 'soize — but git ma my 'aiilc. 

X. 

Dubbut loook at the waiiste: theer warn't not feead for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor yows upon it an' some on it doon in seead. 

XI. 

Xoljbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plough thruff it an' ail. 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my oan. 

XII. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taJikin' o' mea? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a peil; 

An' Squoire 'uU be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire come Michaelmas thutty year. 

XIII. 

A yiowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant nor a 'aiipoth o' sense. 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a fence: 
But godamoighty a moost laake mea an' taiike ma now 
Wi' aiif the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plough! 

XIV. 

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' by, 
Says to thesstn naw doubt " what a man a bea sewer-ly!" 
For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a comed to the 'All; 
I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by hall. 

XV. 

Squoire's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite. 
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Naw nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 

XVI. 

But smnnum 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan teilm. 
If I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet. 
But if I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abeilr to see it. 

XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the 'aale? 
Doctor's a toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the owd taale; 
I weiint break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy; 
Git ma my 'aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. 
* bittern. t Anemones. 



4o6 



7 1 TH ONUS. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and 

fall, 
The vapors weep their burden to the ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies be- 
neath, 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms. 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far- folded mists, and gleaming halls of 
morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a 

smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they 

give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills. 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted 

me, 
. And tho' they could not end me, left me 

maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with 

tears 
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy 

gift: 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet 

for all? 



A soft air fans the cloud apart; there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was 

l)orn. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul 

ders pure. 



And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the j 

gloom, I 

Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to 

mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild 

team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise. 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd 

manes," 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence^ then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 

tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? 
" The Gods themselves cannot recall their 

gifts." 

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt 

my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd 

all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and 

sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: 
How can my nature longer mix with thine? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows laithe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled 

feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the 

steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the 

homes 
Of fiappy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
1 Release me, and restore me to the ground; 



THE VOYAGE. 



407 



Thou seest all things, thou w=lt see my 

grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



THE VOYAGE. 



Wk left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South: 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 



Warm broke the breeze against the brow. 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel. 

And swept behind: so quick the run. 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire. 

And burn the threshold of the night. 
Fall rom his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view; ■ 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field. 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seeB, 

We past long lines of Northern capes 
And dewy Northern meadows green. 



We came to warmer waves, and deep 
Across the boundless east we drove. 

Where those long swells of breaker sweep 
The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast. 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

VII. 

O hundred shores of happy climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers. 

VIII. 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we foUow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line; 
But each man murmur'd, " O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair. 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 
sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

X. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — -he was seldom pleased: 
He saw not far: his eyes were dim: 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
" A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

" A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



THE ISLET. 



And never sail of ours was furl'd, 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

l!ut laws of nature were our scorn; 
I'dr blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

lUit whence were those that drove the 
sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter-gale? 

MI. 
Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we follow'd where she led: 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before: 
We know the merry world is round. 

And we mav sail for evermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that flashest 

white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of 

the night. 
All along the valley, where thy waters tlow, 
1 walk'd with one I lo'ved two and thirty 

years ago. 
All along the valley while I walk'd to-day, 
The two and thirty years were a mist that 

rolls away; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed 
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of 

the dead, 
And all along the valley, by rock and cave 

and tree, 
The voice of the dead was a ]i\-ing voice 

to me. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

L'^p there came a flower. 
The peojde said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light. 
But thieves from o'er the wall, 

Stole the seed by niglu. 



Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower. 

Till all the people cried 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable: 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers noWj 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough. 
And some are poor indeed; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



THE ISLET. 

"Whither, O whither, love, shall we go. 
For a score of sweet little summers or so?" 
The sweet little wife of the singer said, 
On the day that follow'd the day she was 

wed, 
" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?" 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sal, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Alixt with myrtle and clad with vine. 
And overstream'd and silveiy-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the Srn 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine." 

"Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no I 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, 
There is but one bird with a musical throat, 
And his compass is but of a single note. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

" IMock me not! mock me not! love, let us 
go-" 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the 

tree, 
And a storm nevei' wakes in the lonely sea. 



THE RIXGLET. 



409 



And a worm is there in the lonely wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens the 

blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place. 

Where yon broad water sweetly slowly 
glides. 
It sees itself from thatch to base 

Dream in the sliding tides. 
And fairer she, but ah now soon to die! 

ller quiet dream of life this hour may 
cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR-BUV. 

He rose at dawn and, tired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar. 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope. 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a herce m«rmaiden cry, 

" O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 



" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay. 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying ' Stay for shame ' ; 

My father raves of death and wreck, 

They' are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

" God help me ! save I take my pari 

Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart 

P'ar worse than any death to me." 



THE RINGLET. 

" VouR ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden-gay, 
If you will give me one, but one, 

To kiss it night and day. 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 



" My ringlet, my ringlet, 

That art so golden -gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint, 

And a fool may say liis say; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss. 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" Then kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, (J Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gay. 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray: 
For what is this which now 1 "m told, 

1 that took you for true gold. 

She that gave you 's bought and sold, 
Sold, sold. 



() Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you irom her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

.She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O tie, you golden nothing, lie 
You irolden lie. 



4IO 



THE CAPTAIN. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame. 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame. 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the flame. 

For what is this which now I learn, 

Has given all my faith a turn? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 
March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra I 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 

But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra! 

"Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 
street ! 

Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 

Scatter the blossom under her feet! 

Break, happy land, into earlier flowers! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 
bowers ! 

Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 
• prayer! 

Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! 

Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! 

Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers! 

Flames, on the windy headland flare! 

Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! 

Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air! 

Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! 

Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 

Melt into stars for the land's desire! 

Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 

Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand. 

Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, 

And welcome her, welcome the land's de- 
sire. 

The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair. 

Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 

Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea^ 

O joy to the people, and joy to the throne, 

Come to us, love us and make us your own ; 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 

We are each all Dane in our welcome of 
thee, 

Alexandra 1 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time him- 
self 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that 

he. 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in 

him. 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and 

scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable world. 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

nigh.. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a 
flower.* 



THE CAPTAIN. 

a legend of the navy. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was: the seamen 

Made a gallant crew. 
Gallant sons of English freemen. 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression. 

Stern he was and rash, 
So for eveiy light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seeni'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands. 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
* The Iruit of the Spindle-tree (Eui^nymus Euro- 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 



411 



Then the Cajitain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech: 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said: the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired: 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- 
ter'd. 

Bullets fell like rain; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains' of men. 
Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken: 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded. 

Pale he turn'd and red. 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

I. 
Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand. 

And singing airy trifles this or that. 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch 
and stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp and 
flat; 



And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
W^hen sleep had bound her in his rosy band, 
And chased away the still-recurring gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less, 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 
creeds; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent! 
A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
Than Init to dance and sing, be gayly 
drest. 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment: 
Yet in the waUzing-circle as we went. 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beauteous 

breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 
The phantom of a wish that once could 
move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles 
restore — 
For ah! the slight coquette, she cannot 
love. 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years. 
She still would take the praise, and 
care no more. 



Wan Sculptor weepest thou to take the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near thee 
lie? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, 
In painting some dead friend from mem- 
ory? 

Weep on: beyond his object Love can last: 

His object lives: more cause to weep 

have I : 

My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast. 

No tears of love, but tears that Love can 

die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup. 
Nor care to sit beside her where she sits- 

Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death for ever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams 
with weary bones. 



412 



SOiVG. 



ON A MOURNER. 



Nature, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God, and turns her face 

To every land beneath the skies. 

Counts nothing that she meets with base, 
But lives and loves in every place; 



Fills out the homely quickset-screens. 
And makes the purple lilac ripe. 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 

The swamp, where hums the dropping 

snipe, 
^Vith moss and braided marish-pipe; 



And on thy heart a finger lays. 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
I'ut forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
\Vith one wide will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and iSlemory, spouse and bride, 
Prom out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwixt them born. 



And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod. 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tractsno feet have trcd 
.And Virtue, like a household god 



Promising empire; such as those 

That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 

SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands: 
Now thy face across his fancy comes., 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee: 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



SONG. 



Home they brought him slain with spears 
They brought him home at even-fall : 

All alone she sits and hears 
Echoes in his empty hall, 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

'» O hush, myjoy, my sorrow." 




EXPERIMENTS, 




EXPERIMENTS 



BOAUICEA. 



While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the east Boiidicca, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of^Britain, near the colony Camulodiine. 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 



" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's bari^arous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I brook to be supplicated? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcass a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, Camulodiine! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaiin! 



" Hear it, Gods! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 

There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodiine, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 

(415) 



EXPERIMENTS. 



There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 

'Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets! 

Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated. 

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimital)le. 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and tliine the battle-thunder of God.' 

So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 



"Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty. 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lothe palaces and tlie temple, lo the colony Cimulodune! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ci'.nobeline? 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay. 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender efteminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted; there — there — they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable. 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Chop the breasts from ofl the mother, dash the l)rains of the little one out. 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us."' 

So the Queen Boildicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yelled and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility, 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in Januaiy, 
Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precij lets, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand. 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously. 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of» tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD. 



417 



IN QUANTITY 



A/caics, 

O MIGHTY ->!OUTH'd inventor of harmo- 
nies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages, 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel 
onset — 
Me rather all that Ijowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of 
even. 



Hcndecasyllabics, 

Oyou chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus, 
All in quantity, careful of my motion, 
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears 

him. 
Lest I fall unawares before the people, 
Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 
Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 
Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 
They should speak to me not without a 

welcome. 
All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor be- 
lieve me 
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 
O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 
Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 
As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; ■ 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 

Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the ^bridge of war 

Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed; 

As when in heaven the stars about the moon 

Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 

And every height comes out, and jutting peak 

And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 

Break open to their highest, and all the stars 

Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart: 

So many a fire between the ships and stream 

Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 

A thoussftid on the plain; and close by each 

Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire; 

And champing golden grain, the horses stood 

Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.f 

* Or, ridgp. 

t Or, more literally, — 

And eating hoary grain and pulse, the steeds 
Stood by tkeir cars, « siting the throned morn. 

Iliad, viii. 542-561. 

27 



4i8 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. 
Hexameters and Pentameters. 

These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer: 
No — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 

When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England? 
When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon? 

Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, ' 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



The voice and the Peak 

Far over summit and lawn. 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of 
dawn ! 



All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar. 

But thou wert silent in heaven. 
Above thee glided the star. 



Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all? 

" I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 



*' A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



" The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom: 

But they — they feel the desire of the deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



" The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the deep; 

They are raised for ever and ever. 
And sink again into sleep." 



Not raised for ever and ever, 
But when their cycle is o'er. 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the star 
Pass and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire; 

The peak is high, and the stars are high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



A voice below the voice. 

And a height beyond the height! 
Our hearing is not hearing. 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn, 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones ( f 
dawn! ♦ 



MISCELLANEOUS 



MISCELLANEOUS 



THE NORTHERN FARMER. 



NEW STYLE. 
I. 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awariy? 
Proputty, propulty, proputty— that 's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty— Sam, thou 's an ass for thy paains. 
Theer 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains. 

II. 
Wo-i— theer 's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam; yon 's parson's 'ouse^ 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse? 
Time to think on it then; for thou '11 be twenty to weeak.* 
Proputty, proputty— woa then woa— let ma 'ear mysen speak. 

III. 
Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee; 
Thou 's been talkin' to muther, an' she bean a tellin' it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munny— thou 's sweet upo' parson's lass— 
Noil— thou '11 marry for luvv— an' we boiith on us thinks tha an ass. 

IV. 

Seea'd her todaay goa by— Saaint's-daiiy— thay was ringing the bells. 
She 's a beauty thou thinks— an' soa is scoors o' gells. 
Them as 'as munny an' all— wot 's a beauty?— the flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 

V. 

Do'ant be stunt ;t taake time: I knaws what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this:_^ 
" Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!" 

VI. 
An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Maiiybe she warn't a beauty:— I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? 
♦ This week. + Obstinate. 

(421) 



422 THE NORTHERN FARMER. 

vn. 
Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle* her bread: 
Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant nivir git naw 'igher: 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire. 

VIII. 

And thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taai'l they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd f yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 

IX. 

Luvv? what 's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they 've good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it: reason why. 

X. 

Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as near as mays nowt—:}: 
Woa then, wiltha? dangthal^the bees is as fell as owt.g 

XI. 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence! 
Gentleman burn! what 's a gentleman burn? is it shillins an' pence? 
Proputty, pioputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it is n't the sailme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it 's the best. 

XII. 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals. 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' tailkes their regular meals, 
Noa, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer a meal 's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 

XIII. 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a lanzy lot. 

Fur wck mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 

Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastwaays 'is munny was 'id. 

But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did. 

XIV. 
Look thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill! 
Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs up to the mill; 
An' I '11 run up to the brig, an' that thou '11 live to see; 
And if thou marries a good un, I '11 leave the land to thee. 

XV. 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that 's what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay. 

* Earn. t Orfovv-weltered— said of a sheep lying on its back ini he furrow. 

X Makes nothing. § 1 he flies are as fierce as anything. 



JFA GES. 



423 



THE VICTIM. 



A PLAGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them Inake the sudden foe; 
So thick they died the people cried 

" The Gods are moved against the land. 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand: 
" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife! 
What would you have of us? 
Human life? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd. 

And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd, 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood; 
And dead men lay all over the way. 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer came 
" The King is happy 
In child and wife; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life." 



The Priest went out by heath and hill; 

The King was hunting in the wild; 
They found the mother sitting still; 

She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 

Hisbeauty still with his years increased, 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold. 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
"The Gods have answer'd: 
We give them the boy." 



The King return'd from out the wild. 
He bore but little game in hand; 

The mother said: " They have taken tin 
child 
To spill his blood and heal the land: 



The land is sick, the people diseased. 

And blight and famine on all the lea: 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son. 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest? 
Or I, the wife?" 



The King loent low, with hand on brow, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee: 
" O wife, what use to answer now? 

For now the Priest has judged for me." 
The King was shaken with holy fear: 

"The Gods," he said, "wouldhave chosen 
well ; 
Yet Ijoth are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell! " 
But the Priest was happy, 
His victim won: 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son! " 



The rites prepared, the victim bared. 

The knife uprising toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no! " 
He caught her away with a sudden cry; 

Suddenly from him brake his wife, 
And shrieking " /am his dearest, I — 
/am his dearest! " rush'd on the knife 
And the Priest was happy, 
" O, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest? 
Who was his dearest? 
The Gods have answer'd; 
We give them the wife! " 



WAGES. ■ 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory 

of song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on 

an endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to 

right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover 

of glory she: 
Give her the glory of going on, and still 

to be. 



424 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 



The wages of sin is death: if the wages of 

Virtue be dust, 
Would she have heart to endure for the 

life of the worm and the fly? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet 

seats of the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in 

a summer sky: 
Give her the wages of going on, and not 

to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 

hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him 

who reigns? 

is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that 

which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do 

we not live in dreams? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 
body and limb, 

Are they not sign and symbol of thy di- 
vision from Him? 

Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the 

reason why; 
For is He not all but thou, that hast 

power to feel "I am I! " 



Glory about thee, without thee: and thou 

fulfillest thy doom. 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled 

splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and 
Spirit with Spirit can meet — 

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer 
than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise, O Soul, and let 

us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is 

yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some: no God at all, 

says the fool; 
For all we have power to see is a straight 

staft bent in a pool; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the 

eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — 

were it not He? 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies: — 

Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all> 

I should know what God and man is. 



^mm 



iisis^m 



QUEEN MARY 




^^ 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Queen Mary. 

Philip (King of Naples and Sicily, afterward King of Spain). 

The Princess Elizabeth. 

Reginald Pole (Cardinal and Papal Legate). 

Simon Renard (Spanish Ambassador). 

Le Sieur de Noailles (French Ambassador). 

Thomas Cranmer (Archbishop of Canterbury). 

Sir Nicholas Heath (Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner). 

Edward Courtenay (Earl of Devon). 

Lord William Howard (afterward Lord Howard and Lord High Admiral). 

Lord Williams of Thame. 

Lord Paget. 

Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner (Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor). 

Edmund Bonner (Bishop of London). 

Thomas Thirlby (Bishop of Ely). 

Sir Thomas Wyatt ) ,j . t j \ 

., „ f. V (Insurrectionary Leaders). 

Sir Thomas Stafford [ ^ ■' -' 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 

Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White (Lord Mayor of London). 

The Duke of Alva ) , ,. ,. ^iu-r \ 

„ ^ 17^^,. Mattending on Philip). 

The Count de Feria \ ^ ^ *^' 

Peter Martyr. 

Father Cole. 

Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain Brett ) /* i. , r ,,r „„\ 

. T,,,, ™ > (Adherents of Wyatt). 

Antony Knyvett j ^ ■' -' 

Peters (Gentleman of Lord Howard). 

Roger (Servant to Noailles). 

William (Servant to Wyatt). 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter (Mother of Courtenay). 

Lady Clarence i 

Lady Magdalen Dacres I (Ladies in waiting to the Queen). 

Alice ) 

Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 



iy V (Two Country Wives). 



Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament 
two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, 
Messengers, Guards, Pages, etc. 
(426) 



QUEEN MARY. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— ALDGATE RICHLY DE- 
CORATED. 

Crowd. Marshalmen. 

Marshalrnan. Stand back, keep a clear 
lane. When will her Majesty pass, sayst 
thou? why, now, even now; wherefore 
draw back your heads and your horns be- 
fore I break them, and make what noise 
you will with your tongues, so it be not trea- 
son. Long live Queen- Mary, the lawful 
and legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth ! 
Shout, knaves! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, legit- 
imate; what does it mean? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true-born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Parlia- 
ment make her a bastard? 

Second Citizen. No; it was the Lady Eliz- 
abeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man; that 
was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the bastard? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both bas- 
tards by Act of Parliament and Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament can 
make every true-born man of us a bastard. 
Old Nokes, can't it make thee a bastard? 
thou shouldst know, for thou art as white as 
three Christmasses. 

Old N'okes [dreamily). Who's a-passing? 
King Edward or King Richard? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary 's a-pass- 
ing ! \_Falls on his knees. 

N'okes. Let father alone, my masters! 
he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for him, 
then ! thou art no such cockerel thyself, for 



thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry 
the Seventh. 

A'okes. Eh! that was afore bastard-mak- 
ing began. I was born true man at five in 
the forenoon i'the tail of old Harry, and so 
they can't make me a bastard. 

Third Citize?!. But if Parliament can 
make the Queen a bastard, why, it follows 
all the mere that they can make thee one, 
who art fray'd i' the knees, and out at elbow, 
and bald o' the back, and bursten at the 
toes, and down at heels. 

A'okes. I was born of a true man and a 
ring'd wife, and I can't argue upon it; but 
I and my old woman 'ud burn upon it, that 
would we. 

JMarshalman. What are you cackling of 
bastardy under the Queen's own nose? I'll 
have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the Rood 
I will! 

First Citizen. He swears by the Rood. 
Whew! 

Second Citizen. Hark! the trumpets. 
[ 7 he Procession passes, Mary and'El.Vl- 
ABETH riding side by side, and disap- 
pears under the gate. 
Citizens. Long live Queen Mary! Down 
with all traitors! God save her Grace; and 
death to Northumberland! S^Exeimt. 

Manent Two Gentlemen, 

First Gentleman. By God's light, a no- 
ble creature, right royal. 

Second Gentlemati. She looks comelier 
than ordinary to-day; but to my mind the 
Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and 
royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady Eliza- 
beth. Did you hear (I have a daughter in 
her service who reported it) that she met 
the Queen at Wanstead with five hundred 
horse, and the Queen (tho' some say they 
be much divided) took her hand, called 

(427) 



428 



QUEEN MARY. 



her sweet sister, and kiss'd not her alone, 
but all the ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in her 
hour of joy, there will be plenty to sunder 
and unsister them again; this Gardiner for 
one, who is to be made Lord Chancellor, 
and will pounce like a wild beast out of his 
cage to worry Cranmer. 

Eirst Gentleman. And furthermore, my 
daughter said that when there rose a talk 
of the late rebellion, she spoke even of 
Northumberland pitifully, and of the good 
Lady Jane as a poor innocent child who 
had but obeyed her father; and further- 
more, she said that no one in her time 
should be burnt for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look for 
happy times. 

Eirst Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if you 
know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you touch 
upon the rumor that Charles, the master of 
the world, has ofifer'd her his son Philip, 
the Pope and the Devil. I trust it is but a 
rumor. 

Eirst Gentleman. She is going now to the 
Tower to loose the prisoners there, and 
among them Courtenay, to be made Earl 
of Devon, of royal blood, of splendid fea 
ture, whom the council and all her people 
wish her to marry. May it be so, for we 
are many of us Catholics, but few Papists, 
and the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon 
it. 

Second Gentleman. Was shenot betroth'd 
in her babyhood to the Great Emperor 
himself? 

Eirst Gentleman. Ay, but he's too old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal, but I 
hear that he too is full of aches and Ijroken 
before his day. 

Eirst Gentlcfnan. O, the Pt)pe could 
dispense with his Cardinalate, and his 
achage, and his breakage, if that were 
all: but will you not follow the pro- 
cess on? 

Second Gentleman. No, I have seen 
enough for this day. 

Eirst Gentleman. Well, i snail follow; 
if I can get near enough I shall judge with 
my own eyes whether her Grace incline to 
this splendid scion of Plantagenet. 

\^E.\eiint. 



SCENE IL— A ROOM IN LAMBETH 
PALACE. 

Cran.mp;r. 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frank- 
fort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our bishops from their sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells— 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 

more; 

So they report: I shall be left alone. 
No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. 

Enter Peter Martyr. 
Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer! were there 

nothing else, your name 
Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters 

Patent 
That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. 
Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it was 

written last: 
Those that are now her Privy Council, 

sign'd 
Before me : nay, the judges had pronounced 
That our young Edward might bequeath 

the crown 
Of England, putting by his father's will. 
Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me. 
The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading 

eyes 
Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent 

hand. 
Damp with the sweat of death, and griping 

mine, 
Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield 
His Church of England to the Papal wolf 
And Mary; then I could no more — I sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency. 
She cannot pass her traitor council by. 
To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be for- 

given. 
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice: 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and left. 
Have I climb'd back into the primal church, 
And stand within the porch, and Christ 

with me; 
My flight were such a scandal to the faith, 



'que EX MARY. 



429 



"he downfall of so many simple souls, 
dare not leave my post. 
Peter Alarfyr. But you divorced 

Jueen Catharine and her father; hence, her 

hate 
(Vill burn till you are burn'd. 

Cranvier. I can not help it. 

"he Canonists and Schoolman were with 

me. 
' Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife." — 

'Tis written, 
'They shall be childless." True, Mary was 

born, 
3ut France would not accept her for a 

bride 
\.s being born from incest; and this 

wrought 
Upon the King; and child by child, you 

know, 
''Were momentary sparkles, out as quick 
\lmost as kindled; and he brought his 

doubts 
\nd fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him 
He did believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the time 
That should already have seen your steps 

a mile 
From me and Lambeth? God be with you I 
Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a letter 
you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranvicr. It was a wheedling monk 

Set up the mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good Lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you-. Fly, my Lord, 
fly! 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant me 

power to burn ! 
Peter Martyr. They have given me a safe 
conduct: for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you. 
Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, 
and fly. 

Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and kt me 
die the death. \^Exit Peter Martyr 

Enter Old Servant. 

O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's 

Officers 
•Are here in force to take you to the Tower 



Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. 
I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. \Exciint. 

SCENE III.— ST. PAUL'S CROSS. 
Father Bourne in the pulpit. A crowd. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Courtenay. 

The Sieur UE Noailles and his ntan 

Roger in front of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noaillcs. Hast thou let fall those papers 
in the palace? 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. " There will be no peace for 
Mary till Elizabeth lose her head." 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other. '< Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen!" 

Roger. Ay, sir; she needs must tread 
upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a grunting 

here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my masters; 
hear what the shaveling has to say for 
himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear. .^ 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy land, 
long divided in itself, and sever'd from the 
faith, will return into the one true fold, 
seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen 
hath— 

Crowd. No pope! no pope! 

Roger [to those about him, mimicking 
Bourne). — hath sent for the holy legate of 
the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, 
to give us all that holy absolution which — 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the life! 

Second Citizen. Holy Absolution! holy 
Inquisition! 

Third Citizen. Down with the Papist! 

[Hubbub. 

Bourne. — and now that your good bish- 
op, Bonner, who hath lain so long under 
bonds for the faith — \_Hubbub. 

Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou in 
among the crowd. 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old friend, 
we'll have no pope here while the Lady 
Elizabeth lives. 



430 



QUEEN MARY. 



Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, 
but the old leaven sticks to my tongue yet. 
First Citizen. He says right; by the 
mass, we'll have no mass here. 

Voices of the Croiud. Peace! hear him; 
let his own words damn the Papist. From 
thine own mouth I judge thee — tear him 
down. 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious Queen, 
let me call her our second Virgin Mary, 
hath begun to re-edify the true temple — 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary! we'll have 
no virgins here — we'll have the Lady 
Elizabeth! 

[Sioords are drawn, a knife is hurled, 

and sticks in the pulpit. The mob 

throng to the pulpit stairs. 

Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courtenay, 

wilt thou see the holy father 

Murder'd before thy face? Up, son, and 

save him! 
They love thee, and thou canst not come 
to harm. 
Courtenay {in the pulpit) . Shame, shame, 
my masters! are you English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds against 
ong,? 
Crowd. A Courtenay! a Courtenay! 
[A train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
Noailles. These birds of passage come 
before their time: 
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter game 
for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle: look you 

there — 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed our 

Queen! 
After him, boys! and pelt him from the 
city. 
\They seize stones and follow the Span- 
iards. Exeunt on the other side 
Marchioness of E.xeter and At- 
tendants. 
Noailles [to Roger). Stand from me. If 
Elizabeth lose her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon. 
Arise against her and dethrone the (^ueen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 



Good-day, my Lord of Devon; 
A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob! 
Courtenay. My mother said, Go up; and 
up 1 went. 
I knew they would not do me any wrong. 
For I am mighty popular with them, ' 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. Why not? I am king's 

blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of change 

may come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah! 
N'oailles. But does your gracious Queen 

entreat you king-like? 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she en- 
treats me like a child. 
N^oailles. You've but a dull life in this 
Maiden court, I fear, my Lord. 

Courtenay. A life of nods and yawns. 
Noailles. So you would honor my poor 
house to-night, 
We might enliven you. Divers honest fel- 
lows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison, 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more — we 
play. 
Courtenay. At what? 
A'oailles. The game of chess. 

Courtenay. The game of chess! 

I can play well, and I shall beat you there. 
N'oailles. Ay, but we play with Henry, 
King of France, 
And certain of his Court. 
His Highness makes his moves across the 

channel. 
We answer him with ours, and there are 

messengers 
That go between «s. 

Courtenay. \Nhy, such a game, sir, were 

whole years a playing. 
jYoailles. Nay; not so long I trust. That 
all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. 
Courtenay. The King is skilful at it? 
Noailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high? 
A^oailles. But not beyond your means. 

Courtenay. Well, Fm the first of players. 

I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in our 
company. 
And so you well attend to the King's moves, 
I think you may. 



Qi'£EJV MARY. 



431 



Courtenay. When do you meet? 

Noailles. To-night 

Courtenay {aside). I will be there; the 
fellow's at his tricks — 
Deep — I shall fathom him. [Aloud.) Good 
morning, Noailles. 

[Exit Courtenay 
Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. Strange 
game of chess! a King 
That with her own pawns plays against a 

Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a King 
Ay; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay 

seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, 
That, with an ass's, not an horse's head. 
Skips every way, from levity or from fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so that 

Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that any one 
Suspected thee to be my man? 

Roger. Not one, sir 

.Voailles. No ! the disguise was perfect, 

Let's away! [Exeiiftt. 



SCENE IV.—LONDON. A ROOM IN 
THE PALACE. 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. 
Pah ! 

The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn traitor? 
They've almost talk'd me into it: yet the 

word 
Affrights me somewhat; to be such a one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your 

age. 
And by your looks, you are not worth the 

having. 
Yet by your crown you are. 

\^Seeing Elizabeth 

The Princess there? 

If I tried her and la — she's amorous. 

Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, 

Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord 

Admiral? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be still 
A party to the state; and then, who knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing on, my 
Lord of Devon? 



Courtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what, sir? 

Courtenay. — Made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lenno.x; 
You, 
The heir presumptive? 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask? you know it. 
Courtenay. You needs must bear it hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 
Courtenay. Well, I was musing upon 
that; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours: we should be 
friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of an- 
other to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer bond? 
Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were loosed 
from out the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 
Ycm spent your life; that broken, out you 

flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would 

settle 
Upon this flower, now that; but all things 

here 
At Court are known; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she! 

Half faded! but you, cousin, are fresh and 

sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try me? 
why, but now 
I called you butterfly, 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly: 
Why do you call me butterfly? 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then? 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 
This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon 
To take m'y seat in ; looks it not right royal ? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen for- 
bade you wearing it. 
Courtenay . I wear it then to spite her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord: 
I see you in the Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince-i^prelates kneel 
to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood in 
Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon and her cousin. 



432 



QUEEN MARY. 



Elizabeth. She hears you make your boast 

that after all 

She means to wed you. Folly, my good 

Lord. 

Cotirtenay. How folly? a great party in 
the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 

Doth not so great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me? 

Cotirtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 

Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 

Courtenay. Great, said you? nay, you 
shall be great. I love you. 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be 
close? 

Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord? 

Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen: • 

The King of France, Noailles the ambas- 
sador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall 

not be. 

If Mary will not hear us — well — conjecture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride. 
The people there so worship me — Your ear: 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, my Lord; 
I cannot hear you. 

Cotirtenay. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose your head. 

Cotirtenay. I have a head to lose for 
your sweet sake. 

Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord? Best 
keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 

Not many friends are mine, excepf indeed 
Among the many. I believe you mine; 
And so you may continue mine, farewell. 
And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind. 

Alary. Whispering — leagued together 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, that's 
a noble horse of yours, my Lord. 
I trust that he will carry you well to-day. 
And heal your headache. 



Courtenay. You are wild; what 

headache? 
Heartache, perchance; not headache. 
Elizabeth {aside to Courtenay\. Are you 
blind? 

[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. 
Exit Mary. 

Enter Lord William Howard. 

Howard. Was that my Lord of Devon? 

Do not you 

Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. 

He hath fallen out of favor with the Queen. 

She fears the Lords may side with you and 

him 
Against her marriage; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous every 
way. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that way, 

my good uncle. 
Howard. But your own state is full of 
danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers. 
Look to you as the one to crown their ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot, I pray you: 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, 
Speak not thereof-^no, not to your best 

friend. 
Lest you should be confounded with it. 

Still— 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest says, 
You know your Latin — quiet as a dead 

body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling you? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me anything 
or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Hoivard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know; but this I charge you, 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chan- 
cellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 
He hath not manyj, as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more reason 
Than that the twain have been tied up to- 
gether, 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were fellow- 
prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, 
niece. 



QUEEN MARY. 



433 



He hath no fence when Clardiner questions 

him : 
All oozes out; yet him — because they know 

him 
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the 

people 
Claim as ther natural leader— ay, some say 
That vou shall marry him, make him King 
' belike. 
Elizabeth. Do they say so, good uncle? 
Harvard. Ay, good niece! 

You should be plain and open with me, 

niece. 
You should not play upon me. 

Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter GARDINER. 

Gardiner. The Queen would see your 

Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my Lord Bishop? 
Gardiner. I think she means to counsel 
your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my Lord Bishop? 
Gardiner. I do but bring the message, 
know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from her- 
self. 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd 
before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to 

crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish be- 
fore the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen is 

yours. 
I left her with rick jewels in her hand. 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, most 

loyal. \Boivs low and exit. 

Howard. See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord of 

Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey; and I myself 
Believe it will be better for your welfare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know, 
28 



Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within 

me 
Stirrings of some great doom when God's 

just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old CJardiner — his big 

baldness, 
That irritable forelock which he rubs. 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes 
Half fright me. 

Howard. You've a bold heart; keep it 

so; 
He cannot touch you save that you turn 

traitor; 
And so take heed I pray you — you are one 
Who love that men should smile upon you, 

niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some of 

them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the 

smiling sea 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince. 
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, 

seek, 
In that lone house, to practise on my life. 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Howard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip and 

all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle; they 

have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that? what have 

you done to lose her? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. [^Exeunt. 



SCENE v.— A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Mary, luith Philip's ininiatttre. Alice. 

Mary [kissing the viiniature). Most 
goodly, king-like, and an emperor's 
son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl? 
Aliee. Goodly enough, your Grace, and 
yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Ay; some wa.xen doll 
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike; 
All red and white, the fashion of our land. 
But my good mother came (God rest her 
soul) 



434 



QUEEN MARY. 



Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, 
And in my likings. 

Alice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but took 
To the English red and white. Your royal 
father 

(For so they say) was all pure lily antl rose 

In his youth, and like a lady. 

Marv. O just God! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 
enough 

To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 

Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, for- 
lorn! 

And then the King— that traitor past for- 
giveness. 

The false archbishop fawning on him, mar- 
ried 

The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 

Ev'n as she is; but God hath sent me here 

To take such order with all heretics 

That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 

My father and my brother had not lived, 

What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, 

Now in the Tower? 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was passing 

Some chapel down in Essex, and with her 

Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne 

Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up 

Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 

And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, 

To him witliin there who made heaven and 
earth? 

I cannot, and I dare not tell your Grace 

Wiiat Lady Jane replied. 

Marv. But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, and 
pity her — 

She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah! she 
said, 

The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous! blasphemous! 

She ought to burn. Hence, thou {Exit 
Alice). No — being traitor 

Her head will fall: shallit? she is but a 
child. 

We do not kill the child for doing that 

His father whipt him into doing — a head 

So full of grace and beauty! would that 
mine * 

Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be. 

My love, for thy sake only. 

I am eleven years older than he is. 

But will he care for that? 

No, by the Holy Virgin, being noble, 



But love me only: then the bastard sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her? 
No, being of the true faith with myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is against 

him; 
The Council, people. Parliament against 

him ; 
But I will liave him! My hard father hated 

me; 
My brother rather hated me than loved: 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my 

prayer; 
Give me my Philip; and we two will lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and 

watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old. 
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of 

Christ! 

Enter Usher. 

Who waits, sir? 

Usher. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. i^Enter Gardi- 
ner.) Good-morning, my good l>ord. 
[Exit Usher. 
Gardiner. That every morning of your 
Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's 

prayer 
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gar- 
diner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, my Lord: 
Gardiner. And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your 

worth. 
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's 

debts. 
Your lavish household curb'd, and the re- 
mission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the people. 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat 

for you. 
Pd iiave you yet more loved: the realm is 

poor. 
The exchequer at neap-ebb: we might 

withdraw 
Part of our garrison at Calais! 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate of 
France! 



QUEEN aMARY. 



435 



I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, 
■ mine heart, 

But do not lose me Calais. 

Gaidincr. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. 

That I may keep you thus, who am your 
friend 

And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak? 
l\Iary. I can forespeak your speaking 
Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate him? 
That is 

Your question, and I front it with another: 

Is it England, or a party? Now, you 
answer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear beneath 
my dress 

A shirt of mail :my house hath been assaulted, 

And when I walk abroad, the populace, 

With fingers pointed like so many daggers, 

Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip; 

And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms 

Guard my poor dreams for England. Men 
would murder me. 

Because they think me favorer of this mar- 
riage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon you, my 

Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of Devon 
Mary. Earl of Devon? 

I freed him from the Tower, placed him at 
Court; 

I made him Earl of Devon, and — the fool — 

He wrecks his health and wealth on cour- 
tesans, 

And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy that 
hath broken bounds, 

Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tu- 
dor, 

And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you, Madam, 

Even to the utmost. All the church is grate- 
ful. 

You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited 

The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the Rood 
again; 

And brought us back the mass. I am all 
thanks 

To God and to your Grace: yet I know 
well, 

Your people, and I go with them so 
far, 



Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to 

play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church. 
Mary {showing f/ie picture). Is this the 
face of one who plays the tyrant? 
Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle? 
Garditier. Madam, methinks a cold face 
and a haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of Courte- 

nay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would his life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter? 

Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; 
marry Philip, 
And be stepmother of a score of sons! 
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, 

ha! 
For Philip— 

Mary. You offend us; you may leave us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body and 
blood of Christ 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so sworn? 
Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardiner. News to me! 

It then remains for your poor Gardiner, 
So you still care to trust him somewhat less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the event 
In some such form as least may harm your 
Grace. 
Mary. I'll have the scandal sounded to 
the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner {aside). These princes are like 
children, must be physick'd. 
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine 

office, 
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool. 

\_Exit. 

Enter Usher. 

Mary. Who waits? 

Usher. The ambassador from France, 
your Grace. 

Mary. Bid him come in. Good-morn- 
ing, Sir de Noailles. 

Xoailles {entering). A happy morning to 
your Majesty. 



436 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. And I should some time have a 

happy morning; 
I have had none yet. What says the King, 

your master? 
Noailks. Madam, my master hears with 

much alarm 
That you may marry Philip, Prince of 

Spain — 
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness, 
That if this Philip be the titular king 
Of England, and at war with him, your 

Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war. 
Ay, tho' you long for peace: wherefore, my 

master. 
If but to prove your Majesty's good-will, 
.Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn 

between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty? where- 
fore should I do it? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! and your good 

master. 
Pray God he do not be the first to break 

them, 
Must be content with that; and so, fare- 
well. 
Noailks {going, returns). I would your 

answer had been other. Madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Alary. And so do I, sir; 

Your master works against me in the dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 

iVoai/ks. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace 
Why should he move against you? 

Marv. Will you hear why? 

Mary of Scotland — for I have not own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after me 
Is heir of England; and my royal father. 
To make the crown of Scotland one with 

ours, 
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's 

bride. 
Ay, but your King stole her a babe from 

Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. 
See then: 

Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France; 
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain 
and we, 



One crown, might rule the world. There 

lies your fear. 
This is your drift. You play at hide and 

seek. 
Show me your faces! 

A^oaiilcs. Madam, I am amazed: 

French, I must needs wish all good things 

for France. 
That must be pardon'd me; but I protest 
Your Grace's policy hath a further flight 
Than mine into the future. We but seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand 
upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, sir, 
to our Council. 
Have you seen Philip ever? 

Noailles. Only once 

Mary. Is this like Philip? 
Noailks. Ay, but nobler-looking. 

Mary. Hath he the large ability of the 

Emperor? 
A'oaillcs. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for 

thee, 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy King. 
/Voailles. Make no allowance for the na- 
ked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than Charles; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold— no dash of daring in 
him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailks. Why (smiling), no, indeed. 

Mary. Sayest thou? 
Noailks. A, very wanton life indeed 

{smiling) . 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, sir. 

[^Exil NOAILLKS. 

You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural 
foe. 

Enter Usher. 

Who waits? 

Usher. The ambassador of Spain, your 
Grace. [Exit. 

Enter Simon Renard. 

Mary. Thou art ever welcome, Simon 

Renard. Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine Emperor 

promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip? 



QUEEN MARY. 



437 



Kenard. Nay, your Grace, it hath not 
reach 'd me. 



This matter of the church lands. At his 



coming 



I know not wherefore— rsonie mischance of ■ Vour star will rise. 



flood. 



Marv. 



My star! a baleful one. 



And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, ori I see but the lilack night, and hear the 



wave 
And wind at their old battle; he must have 

written. 
Alary. But Philip never writes me one 

poor word, 
\Yhich in his absence had been all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer! 

Kenard. Yet I know the Prince, 

So your king-parliament suffer him to land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. 
Mary. God change the pebble which 

his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly stone 
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd 

tirelike; 
I'll .<*et it round with gold, with pearl, with 

diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church come with 

him; 
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for 

sail ! 
God lay the waves and strew the storms at 

sea. 
And here at land among the people. O 

Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in despair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Kenard. O madam. 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My mas- 
ter, Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics here. 
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. 

Then 
Spit them like larks, for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcass of your 

church 
To pieces, there were many wolves among 

you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their 

den. 
The Pope would have you make them ren- 
der these; 
So would your cousin. Cardinal Pole; ill 

counsel ! 
These let them keep at present; stir not yet 



wolf. 
What star? 

Kenard. Your star will be your princely 
son. 
Heir of this England and the Netherlands! 
And if your wolf the while should howl 

for more 
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some already, 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours. 
Mary. Why do they talk so foully of your 

Prince, Renard? 
Kenard. The lot of princes. To sit high 
Is to be lied about. 

Alary. They call him cold. 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Kenard. Why, doubtless, Philip shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue blood — 

.still 
All within measure — nay, it well becomes 
him. 
Alary. Hath he the large ability of his 

'father? 
Kenard. Nay. some believe that he will 

go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him? 
Kenard. Ay. somewhat; but your Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the 

sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Alary. Of a pure life? 

Kenard. As an angel among angels. Yea, 
lay Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, " Who- 
soever 
Looketh after a woman," would not graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in 

him there. 
Chaste as your Grace! 

Alary. I am happy in him there. 

Kenard. And would be altogether happy. 
Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to 

closer. 
You have sent her from the Court, but then 

she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in the 
woods. 



438 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. We have our spies abroad to catch 

her tripping, 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower! the block 

The word has turn'd your Highness pale; 

the thing 

"Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with 

tha jest 
When the head leapt — so common! 1 do 

think 
To save your crown that it must come to 

this. 
Mary. I love her not, but all the people 

love her. 
And would not have her even to the Tower. 
Rcnard. Not yet; but your old traitors of 

the Tower, 
Why, when you put Northumberland to 

death, 
The sentence having past upon them all, 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford 

Dudley. 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear 

your crown? 
Alary. Dared, no, not that; the child 

obey'd her lather. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. 
Renard. (iood Madam, when the Roman 

wish'd to reign; 
He slew not him alone who wore the purple, 
But his assessor in the throne, perchance 
A child more innocent than Lady jane. 
Alary. I am English Queen, not Roman 

Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much mercy is a want 

of mercy. 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, 

or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the 

throne 
Where you should sit with Philip; he will 

not come 
Till she be gone. 

Alary. Indeed, if that were true — 

But I must say farewell. I am somewhat 

faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not 

Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now and 

then 
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden 

chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it me. 
And I have broken with my father — take 



And wear it as memorial of a morning 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and 

leaves me 
As hopeful. 

Renard {aside). Whew — the folly of all 

follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. {Aloud.) 

Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not with gold, 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and 

trust me, 
Philip is yours. [ExJL 

Alary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Us HER. 

Usher. Your Council is in session, please 

your Majesty. 
Alary. Sir, let them sit. I must have 
time to breathe. 

No, say I come. {Exit Usher.) I won by 
boldness once. 

The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flan- 
ders. 

I would not; but a hundred miles I rode. 

Sent out my letters, call'd my friends to- 
gether. 

Struck home, and won. 

And when the Council would not crown 
me — thought 

To bind me first by oaths I could not keep. 

And keep with Christ and conscience — was 
it boldness 

Or weakness that won there? when I, their 
Queen, 

Cast myself down upon my knees before 
them, 

And those hard men brake into woman 
tears, 

Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that pas- 
sion 

Gave me my crown. 

Enter ALICE. 

Girl, hast thou ever heard 

Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court? 

Alice. What slanders? I, your Grace; 

no, never. 
Alary. Nothing? 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 
Alary. See that you neither hear them 

- nor repeat ! 
Alice [aside). Good lord! but I have 
heard a thousand such. 



QUE EX MARY. 



439 



Ay, and repeated them as often — mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back 
again? 

Enter Renakd. 
Renard. Madam, I scarce had left your 
Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we waited for — •. 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. 
It craves an instant answer, Ay or No? 
Mary. An instant. Ay or No! the Council 
'sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice {stepping before her). Your High- 
ness is all trembling. 
Mary. Make way. 

\^Exit into the Council Chamber. 

Alice. O Master Renard, Master 

Renard, 

If you have falsely painted your fme Prince; 

Praised, where you should have blamed 

him, I pray God 
No woman ever love you. Master Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at 

night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, did 
you ever 
Sigh for a beard? 

Alice. That's not a pretty question. 



Renard. Not prettily put? I mean, my 
pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 

Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then? 

Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you should 
know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan 
A kindled tire. 

Alice. According to the old song: 

" His friends would praise him, 1 believed 'em, 
His foes would blame him, and 1 scorned 'em ; 
His liiends — as angels I received 'em, 
His toes — the Devil had suborn'd 'em." 

Renard. I'eace, pretty, maiden. 
I hear them stirring in the Council Cham- 
ber. 
Lord Paget's" Ay" is sure — who else? and 

yet, 
They are all too much at odds to close at 

once 
In one full-throated No! Her Highness 
comes. 

Enter Mary. 
Alice. How deathly pale! — a chair, your 
Highness. 

[Bringing one to ike Qi een. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council? 

Mary. Ay! My Philip is all mine. 

\Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— ALLINGTON CASTLE. 

Sir Thomas W^yatt. 
Wyatt. I do not hear from Carew or the 
Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leicester ;Carew stirs 
In Devon : that tine porcelain Courtenay, 
.Save that he fears he might be crack'd in 

using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in my time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too. 

Enter WiLLIAM. 
News abroad, William?. 

/( illiam. None so new. Sir Thomas, and 
none so old. Sir Thomas. No new news 
that Philip comes to wed Mary; no old 
news that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas 
would have hated it. The bells are ringing 
at Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear? 



Wyatt. Ay, for the saints are come to 
reign again. 
Most like it is a saint's-day. There's no call 
As yet for me; so in this pause, before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious work 
To string my father's sonnets, left about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, 
To grace his memory. 

VVilliavi. Ay, why not. Sir Thomas? He 
was a fine courtier, he: Queen Anne lov.ed 
him. All the women loved him. I loved 
him, I was in Spain with him. I couldn't 
eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I 
hate .Spain, .Sir Thomas. 

//} (^fl- l^'"t thou could'st drink in Spain 
it I remember. 

JV illiam. Sir Thomas, we may grant the 
wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted 
the wine. 



440 



QUEEN MARY. 



Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my 
father's sonnets. 

W'illam. Ay — sonnets — a fine corn-tier of 

the old Court, old Sir Thomas. \Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he loved 

the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and let 

ter'd peace. 
To read and rhyme in solitary fields, 
The lark above, the nightingale below. 
And answer them in song. The sire be 

gets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail 
"Where he was fullest: yet — to write it 

down. \_He writes. 

Re-enter William. 

Williani. There is news, there is news, 
and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for 
sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men 
on Penenden Heath all calling after your 
worship, and your worship's name heard 
into Maidstone market, and your worship 
the first man in Kent and Christendom, for 
the world's up, and your worship a-top of it. 
Wyatt. Inverted ^sop — mountain out of 

mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pothouse 

knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale 

Enter Antony Knvvett. 

William. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Kiiyvett . Look you, Master Wyatt, 

Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No; not these. 

Dumb children of my father, that will speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies, you 

know, 
For ages. 

Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[tearing the paper. 
It lies there in six pieces at your feet; 
For all that I can carry it in my head. 
Knyvett. If you can carry your head upon 

your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it off 
my shoulders. 
And sonnet-making's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you will. 



Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, 
ears, brains? 

This Philip and the black-faced swarms of 
Spain, 

The hardest, cruellest people in the world, 

Come locusting upon us, eat us up. 

Confiscate lands, goods, money — Wyatt, 
Wyatt , 

Wake, or the stout old island will become 

A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you 

On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them — 
more — 

All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no 
glory 

Like his who saves his country: and you sit 

Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge, 

By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, 

As a good sailor. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend: you stroke me on one 
cheek, 

Buff'et the other. Come, you bluster, An- 
tony! 

You know I know all this. I must not 
move 

Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. 

I fear the mine is fired before the time. 
Kiyvett {showing a paper^ But here's 
some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it. 

Look; can you make it English? A strange 
youth 

Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd "Wy- 
att," 

And, whisking round a corner, show'd his 
back 

Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha! Courtenay's cipher. 

\ Reads. 

" Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is thought 
the Duke will be taken. I am with you still ; but, 
for appearance' sake, stay with the Queen. Gardi- 
ner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the 
Queen hath no force for resistance. Move, if you 
move, at once." 

Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken? 
Down scabbard, and out sword! and let 

Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; 

not that; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign. 
Who are those that shout below there? 

Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in 

hope 
To hear you speak. 



QUEEN MARY. 



441 



Wyatl. Open the window, Knyvett; 

The mine is fired, and I will speak to them. 

Men of Kent — England of England— 
you that have kept your old customs up 
right, while all the rest of England bow'd 
theirs to the Norman, — The cause that 
hath brought us together is not the cause of 
a county or a shire, but of this England, in 
whose crown our Kent is the fairest jewel. 
Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have 
called me to be your leader. I know Spain. 
I have been there with my father; I have 
seen them in their own land; have marked 
the haughtiness of their nobles; the cruelty 
of their priests. If this man marry our 
Queen, however the Council and the Com- 
mons may fence round his power with re 
striction, he will be King, King of England, 
my masters; and the Queen, and the laws, 
and the people, his slaves. \Vhat? shall 
we have Spain on the throne and in the 
I'arliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the 
law-bench; Spain in all the great offices of 
state; Spain in our ships, in otu- forts, in 
our houses, in our beds? 

Crowd. No! no! no Si:)ain. 

]Villia7)i. No Spain in our beds — that 
were worse than all. I have been there 
with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know 
I hate Spain. 

A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must we 
levy war against the Queen's Grace? 

Hj'oU. No, my friend ; war /or the 
Queen's Grace — to save her from herself 
and Philip^ — war against Spain. And think 
not we shall be alone — thousands will flock 
to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on 
our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is 
on our side. The King of France is with 
us; the King of Denmark is with us; the 
world is with us — war against Spain! And 
if we move not now, yet it will be known 
that we have moved; and if Philip come to 
be King, O my God! the rope, the rack, 
the thumb-screw, the stake, the fire. If we 
move not now, Spain moves, bribes our no- 
bles with her gold, and creeps, creeps snake- 
like about our legs till we cannot move at 
all; and ye know, my masters, that wherever 
Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all be- 
neath her. Look at the New World — a 
paradise made hell; the red man, that good 
helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, 
flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried 
by dogs; and here, nearer home, the Nether- 



lands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no 
more — only this, their lot is yours. For- 
ward to London with me! forward to Lon- 
don ! If ye love your liberties or your skins, 
forward to London ! 

Croivd . Forward to London! AWyatt! 

a Wyatt! 
]Vyatt. But first to Rochester, to take the 
guns 
From out the vessels lying in the river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be too few, 

Sir Thomas. 
IJ'yatf. Not many yet. The world as yet, 
my friend. 
Is not half-waked; but every parish tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, 
And pour along the land, and swoll'n and 

fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, in full 

force 
Roll upon London. 

Crowd. A Wyatt ! a W^yatt ! Forward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Eliza- 
beth? 
Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady Jane? 
Wyatt. No, poor soul; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of Allington, green 

field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're something 

again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the state; 
Or — if the Lord God will it- — on the stake. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— GUILDHALL. 

Sir Thomas White (the Lord Mayor), 
Lord William Howard, Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall, Aldermen and Citi- 
zens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes hither 

with her Guards. 
Ihnvard. Ay, all in arms. 

{Several of the Citizens move hastily out 
of the hall. 

Why do they hurry out there? 
]Vhite. My Lord, cut out the rotten from 
your apple, 



442 



QUE EX MARY 



Your apple eats the better. Let them go. 

They go like those old Pharisees in John 

Convicted by their conscience, arrant cow- 
ards, 

Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. 

When will her Grace be here? 

Howard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and compa- 
nies. 

I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. 

But help her in this exigency, make 

Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man 

This day in England. 

IVIiite. I am Thomas "White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set my 
will. 

I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with your 
train bands 

To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him 

With all his men, the Queen in that distress 

Sent Cornwaliisand Hastings to the traitor. 

Feigning to treat with him about her mar- 
riage — 

Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be. 

While this same marriage question was be- 
ing argued. 

Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — and de- 
manded 

Possession of her person and the Tower. 
Howard. And four of her poor Council 
too, my Lord, 

As hostages. 

While. I know it. What do and say 

Your Council at this hour? 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The 
Council, 

The Parliament as well, are troubled waters; 

And yet like waters of the fen they know 
not 

Which way to flow. All hangs on her ad- 
dress. 

And upon you, Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it? Quiet? 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past. 

Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were 
citizens 

Stood each before his shut-up booth, and 
look'd 

As grim and grave as from a funeral. i 



And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, 

With execrating execrable eyes, 

Glared at the citizen. Here was a young 

mother, 
Her face on flame, her red hair all blown 

back, 
She shrilling " W^yatt," while the boy she 

held 
Mimick'd and piped her " Wyatt," as red 

as she 
In hair and cheek: and almost elbowing 

her, 
So close they stood, another, nute as death. 
And white as her own milk; her babe in 

arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart, 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd 

shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating 

beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay, 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore God, 

the rogues — 
Were freely buzz'd among them. So I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of success 
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now tht»- 

Queen, 
In this low pulse and palsy of the state, 
Bade me to tell you that she counts on you 
And on myself as her two hands; on you, 
In your own city, as her right, my Lord, 
For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White? 

One word before she comes. Elizabeth — 
Her name is much abused among these 

traitors. 
Where is she? She is loved by all of us. 
I scarce have heart to mingle in this mat- 
ter. 
If she should be mishandled? 

Howard. No; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to come 

to Court. 
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter. 
And, fearing for her, sent a secret missive, 
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not, 
It found her sick indeed. 

Wliite. God send her well; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 



QUE EX MARY. 



44J 



Enter Guards, Mary, mid Gardiner. Sir 
Thomas "White leads he?- to a raisea 
seal on the dais. 
IVhite. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our 

companies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, be- 
seech 
Vour Highness to accept our lowHest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence; and we 

pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens, 
From your own royal lips, at once may 

know 
The wherefore of this coming, and so 

learn 
Vour Royal will, and do it — I, Lord Mayor 
Of London, and our guilds and compa- 
nies. 
Tl/rtri'. In mine own person am I come to 

you. 
To tell you what indeed ye see and know. 
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent 
Have made strong head against ourselves 

and you. 
They would not have me wed the Prince of 

Spain: 
That was their pretext — so they spake at 

first— 
But we sent divers of our Council to them. 
And by their answers to the question ask'd. 
It doth appear this marriage is the least 
Of all their quarrel. 
Thej have betray'd the treason of their 

hearts: 
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and use 
Both us and them according as they will. 
Now what am I ye know right well — your 

Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring 

whereof. 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful heir 
Of England, and his right came down to 

me. 
Corroborate by your acts of Parliament: 
And as ye were most loving unto him. 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to^ne. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that any one 
Should seize our person, occupy our .state, 
More specially a traitor so presumptuous 



As this .same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd 

with 
A public ignorance, and, under colo 
Of such a cause as hath no color, seeks 
To bend the laws to his own will, and yield 
Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, 
To make free spoil and havoc of your 

goods. 
Now as your Prince, I say, 
I, that was never mother, cannot tell 
How mothers love their children; yet, me- 

thinks, 
A prince as naturally may love his people 
As these their children; and be sure your 

Queen 
So loves you, and so loving, needs must 

deem 
This love by you return'd as heartily; 
And thro' this common knot and bond of 

love. 
Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 
As to this marriage, ye shall understand 
We made thereto no treaty of ourselves. 
And set no foot theretowavd unadvised 
Of all our Privy Council; furtheimore, 
This marriage had the assent of those to 

whom 
The King, my father, did commit his trust; 
Who not alone esteem'd it honoiable. 
But for the wealth and glory of our realm, 
And all our loving subjects, most expedient. 
As to niysdf, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to choose 
But where I list, nor yet so amorous 
That I must needs be husbanded; I thank 

God, 
I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt 
But that, with God's giace, I can live so 

still. 
Yet if it might please God that I should 

leave 
Some fruit of mine own body after me, 
To be your king, you would rejoice thereat, 
And it would be your comfort, as I trust; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or danger 

to you, 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would never 
Consent thereto, nor many while I live; 
Moreover, if this marriage should notsetm. 
Before our own High Court of Parliament, 
To be of rich advantage to our realm, 
We will refrain, and not alone from this, 



444 



QUEEN MARY. 



Likewise from any other, out of whicii 
Looms the least chance of peril to our 

realm. 
Wherefore he bold, and with your lawful 

Prince 
Stand fast against our enemies and yours, 
And fear them not. I fear them not. My 

Lord, 
I leave Lord William Howard in your 

city 
To guard and keep you whole and safe 

from all 
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these 

rebels. 
Who mouth and foam against the Prince of 

Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary! 

Down with Wyatt! 

The Queen! 
White. Three voices from our guilds and 

companies! 
You are shy and proud like Englishmen, 

our masters, 
And will not trust your voices. Understand : 
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast her- 
self 
On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall 
Into the wide -spread arms of fealty. 
And finds you statues. Speak at once — 

and all! 
For whom? 

Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will; 
The Queen of England — or the Kentish 

Squire? 
I know you loyal. Speak! in the name of 

God! 
The Queen of England or the rabble of 

Kent? 
The reeking dungfork master of the mace! 
Your havings wasted by the scythe and 

spade — 
Your rights and charters hobnail'd into 

slush — • 
Your houses fired — your gutters bubbling 

blood — 
Acclamation. No! No! The Queen! the 

Queen ! 
White. Your Highness bears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony. 
And how we each and all of us abhor 
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make 

oath 
To raise your Highness thirty thousand 

men, 



And arm and strike as with one hand, and 
brush 

This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea 

That might have leapt upon us unawares. 

Swear with me, noble fellow -citizens, all, 

With all your trades, and guilds, and com- 
panies. 
Citizens. We swear! 

Mary. We thank your Lordship and your 

loyal city. \^Exit Mary, attended. 

JVhite. I trust this day, thro' God, I have 

saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of Pem- 
broke in command 

Of all her force be safe ; but there are doubts. 
Seco?id Alderman. I hear that Gardiner, 
coming with the Queen, 

And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle- 
bow. 

As if to win the man by flattering him. 

Is he so safe to fight upon her side? 

First .Alderman. If not, there's no man 

safe. 
White. Yes, Thomas White. 

I am safe enough: no man need flatter me. 
Second Alderman. Nay, no man need; 
but did you mark our Queen? 

The color freely play'd into her face, 

And the half sight which makes her look 
so stern, 

Seem'd, thro' that dim dilated world of hers, 

To read our faces; I have never seen her 

So queenly or so goodly. 

IVhitc. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look their 
goodliest. 

Die like the torn fox, dumb, but never 
whine 

Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at 
the block. 
Bagenhall. The man had children, and 
he whined for those. 

Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, 
else 

Should we so doat on courage, were it com- 
moner? 

The Queen stands up, and speaks for her 
own self; 

And all men ciy, she is queenly, she is 
goodly. 

Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor 
here, 

By his own rule, he hath been so bold to- 
day. 

Should look more goodly than the rest of us. 



QUEEN MAE\. 



445 



IVhite. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart 
and hand, 
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all 

Kent. 
Pla! ha! sir; butyoujest; I love it: a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses even. 
Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself, 
Tho' all the world should bay like winter 
wolves. 
Bagenhall. Who knows? the man is prov- 
en by the hour. 



Bagenhall. "Who knows?" I am for 
England. But who knows, 
That knows the Queen, the Spaniaid, and 

the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen ? 

\E.xcitnt. 

SCENE III.— LONDON BRIDGE. 
Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt ajid Brett. 

IVyafi. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk 
moved against us 



IV/tite. The man should make the hour, Thou cried'st "a Wyatt," and, flying to out 



not this the man 
And Thomas White will prove this Thomas 

Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to this Wat; 
Come, sirs, we prate: hence all — gather 

your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to South- 

wark; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the 

Thames, 

And see the citizen arm'd. Good day; good 

day. l^Exii White. 

Bagenhall. One of much outdoor bluster. 

Howard. For all that, 

Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his 

wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own self. 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to believe in 
one's own self. 
So one's own self be thorough, were to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Hozvard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. 
Howard. The nursery-cocker'd child will 
jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men. 
Makes enemies for himself and for his king; 
And if he jeer, not seeing the true man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool; 
And if he see the man and still will jeer. 
He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

state. 
Who is he? let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir 
Ralph. 



side, 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, 

Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to Lon- 
don Bridge; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear we 
cannot. 
Bretl. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swim- 
ming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into the gate- 
house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and saw 
They had hewn the drawbridge down into 

the river. 
It roll'd as black as death ; and that same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to 

smile 
And .sparklelikeour fortune as thousaidest, 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the 

piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William 

Howard 
By torchlight, and his guard; four guns 

gaped at me, 
Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied 

me there 
And made them speak, as well he might 

have done. 
Their voice had left me none to tell you this. 
What shall we do? 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 

Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 
We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ord- 
nance 
On the White Tower and on the Devil's 

Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark; we must 

round 
By Kingston Bridge. 



446 



QUE EX MARY. 



Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Ev'n so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to- 
morrow. 

Enter one o/\\'\'\TT's men. 
Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this paper, 
pray your worship read it; I know not my 
letters; the old priests taught me nothing. 

IVyatt [reads). " Whosoever will appre- 
hend the traitor Thomas W'yatt shall have 
a hundred pounds for reward." 

Man. Is that it? That's a big lot of 
money. 

IVyatt. Ay, ay, my friend; not read it? 
'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of 
paper! 

[IVrites "Thomas W'yatt" large. 
There, any man can read that. 

\_Sticks it in /lis cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No! boldness, which will give 
my followers boldness. 

Enter MAN' with a prisoner. 
Man. We found him, your worship, a- 
plundering o' Bishop Winchester's house; 
he says he's a poor gentleman. 

IVyatt. Gentleman, a thief! Go hang 
him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our sharpest 
foes. 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 
]Vyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised me 

a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine fel 

low's life. 
Brett. Ev'n so; he was my neighbor once 
in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled 

out 
All that he had, and gentleman he was. 
We have been glad together; let him live 
]Vyatt. He has gambled for his life, and 
lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy 

poor gentleman! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight. 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away! 
Women and children! 

Enter a Crowd t^ Women and Children. 



Eirst Woman. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thom- 
as! pray you go away, Sir Thomas, or 
you'll make the White Tower a black 'un 
for us this blessed day. He'll be the death 
on us; and you'll set the Divil's Tower 
a-spitting, and he'll smash all our bits o' 
things worse than Philip o' Spain. 

Second Womati. Don't ye now go to 
think that we be for Philip o' Spain. ( 

Third Woman. No, we know that ye be*] 
come to kill the Queen, and we'll pray for 
you all on our bended knees_. But o' God's 
mercy don't ye kill the C>ueen here. Sir 
Thomas; look ye, here's little Dickon, and 
little Robin, and little Jenny — though she's 
but a side-cousin — and all on our knees, 
we pray you to kill the Queen further off. 
Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. My friends, I have not come to 
kill the Queen 
Or here or there: I come to save you all. 
And I'll go further off. 

Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be be- 
holden to you, and we'll pray for you on 
our bended knees till our lives' end. 

JVyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 

To Kingston, forward! 
\ Exeunt. 

SCENE IV.— ROOM IN THE GATE- 
HOUSE OF WESTMINSTER 
PALACE. 

Mary, Alice, C^ardiner, Renard, 
Ladies. 

Alice. O madam, if Lord Pembroke 

should be false? 
Mary. No, girl; most brave and loyal, 
brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland broke 

Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the 
guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath bro- 
ken thro' the guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 

That all is lost ; but we can save your Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass to 
Windsor. 



QUEEX MARY. 



447 



Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose my 

crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your High- 
ness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner in the 
Tower. 

\_Crit:s withotit.\ 
The traitor! treason! Pembroke! 

Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false to me? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip-^A 

sound 
Of feet and voices thickening hither — 

blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 

Ladies. No, no, your Grace; see there 

the arrows flying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and 
not fear. [Goes out on (he Gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk into cor- 
ners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious 

guard 
Truly; shame on them! they have shut the 
gates! 

Etiter Sir Robert Southwell. 

Soul/noell. The porter,please your Grace, 
hath shut the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms. 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and they 
With their good battleaxes will do you right. 
Against these traitors. 

Mary. They are the flower of England; 
set the gates wide. 

[/i.r/V Southwell. 

Enter Cot RTENAY. 

Cotirtenay. All lost, all lost, all yielded; 
a barge, a barge. 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir? 

Cotirtenay. From Charing Cross; the reb- 
els broke us there. 
And I sped hither with what haste I might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke? 

Courtenay . I left him somewhere in the 

thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled; and thou that 
would'st be King, 



And hast nor heart nor honor. I myself 
Will down into the 1 attle, and there bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those 
That are no cowards and no Courtenays. 
Cotirtenay. I do not love your Grace 
should call me coward. 
Enter another Messenger. 
Messenger. Over, your Grace, all crush'd ; 
the brave Lord William 
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor 

flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 
Messenger. 'Tis said he told Sir Maurice 
there was one 
Cognisant of this, and party thereunto. 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Cotirtenay. O la, the Tower, the Tower, 
always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the Tower. 
Alary. Your Lordship may not have so 
long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Cotirtenay. La, to whistle out my life. 
And carve my coat upon the walls again! 
\E.\it Courtenay guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did confess 
the Princess 
Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto. 
Mary. What? whom — whom did you say? 
Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister. 

Mary. To the Tower with her J 
My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. 
[Gardener and her l.p.niY.s hneel to her. 
Gardiner {rising). There let them lie, 
your foot-stool! {Aside.) Can I 
strike 
Elizabeth? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon: if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike hereafter. 

{Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said he 

said. 
Cries of the moment and the street — 

Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice will de- 
termine that. 
Renard {advancing). I trust by this your 
Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling 
you. 



44« 



QUEEN MARY. 



When last we talk'd, that Philip would not 


Mary. They shall die 


come 


Rcnard. And your so loving sister? 


Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of 


Mary. She shall die 


Suffolk, 


My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. 


And Lady Jane had left us. 


\_Exeiint 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — THE CONDUIT 
GRACE-CHURCH, 



IN 



Painted with the Nine Worthies, among 
them King Henry VIII. holding 
book, on it inscribed " Verbum Dei. 



Enter Sir Ralph Bage.nii.\ll 
Thomas Stafford. 



and Sir 



BagenhaU. A hundred here and hundreds 
hang'd in Kent. 
The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last. 
And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd 

them. 
In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this house 

was one; 
The traitor husband dangled at the door, 
And when tlie traitor wife came out for 

bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as heretofore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder? 

BagenhaU. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. 

Stafford. What tree, sir? 

BagenhaU. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir. 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What! the gallows? 

BagenhaU. Sir, this dead fruit was ripen- 
ing overmuch. 
And had to be removed lest living Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

BagenhaU. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford? 

Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

BagenhaU. Weli, are you not in peril 
here? 

Stafford. I think so. 



I came to feel the pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did you 
see it? 
BagenhaU. Stafford, I am a sad man and 
a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with mine old 

hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask 

of wine 
Beside me, than have seen it, yet I saw it. 
Stafford. Good; was it splendid? 
BagenhaU. Ay, if dukes, and earls. 

And counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, 
Some six or seven bishops, diamonds, 

pearls, 
Thatroyal commonplace too, cloth of gold. 
Could make it so. 

.Stafford. And what was Mary's dress? 
BagenhaU. Good faith, I was too sorry 
for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red shoes! 
Stafford. Red shoes! 

BagenhaU. Scarlet, as if her feet were 
wash'd in l)lood. 
As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you k)ok'd no higher? 

BagenhaU. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a true 

one. 
Blazed false upon her heart. 

.Stafford. But this proud Prince — 

BagenhaU. Nay, he is King, you know, 
the King of Naples. 
The father ceded Naples, that the son. 
Being a King, might wed a Queen. O, he 
Flamed in brocade; white satin his trunk- 
hose, 
Inwrought with silver; on his neck a 
collar, • 



QUE EX MAR\\ 



449 



Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging down 

from this 
Tlie Golden Fleece; and round his knee, 

misplaced, . 

Our English Garter, studded with great 

emeralds, 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you had 

enough 
Of all this gear? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the telling it. 
How look'd the Queen? 

Bagciiliall. No fairer for her jewels. 

And I could see that as the new-made 

couple 
Came from the minister, moving side by 

side 
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 
.She cast on him a vassal smile of love, 
Which Philip with a glance of some dis- 
taste. 
Or so methought, returnM. I may be wrong, 

sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break it. 
Bagcuhall. France! 

We once had half of France, and hurl'd 

our battles 
Into the heart of Spain; but England now 
Is but a ball chuck'd between France and 

Spain, 
His in whose hands she drops; Harry of 

Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering throne to 

stand, 
Could Harry have foreseen that all our no- 
bles 
Would perish on the civil slaughter-field. 
And leave the people naked to the crown, 
.\nd the crown naked to the people; the 

crow n 
Female, tool Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and, as 1 think, 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black-blooded 

Fd make a move myself to hinder that: 
I know some lusty fellows there in France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make us 

weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd. 
And strengthen'd Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last biealh 

Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the 

charge 
Of being his co-rebels? 
29 



Lagcnhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing: 

We have no men among us. 1 he new Lords 

Are quieted with their sop of Abbtylands, 

And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner 
buys them 

With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, 
no courage ! 

Why, ev'n the haughty Prince, Northum- 
berland, 

The leader of the Reformation, knelt 

And blubber'd like a lad, and on the scaf- 
fold 

Recanted, and sold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your country 
wrong, Sir Ralph. 

I know a set of e.xiles over there, 

Dare-devils, that would tat fire and spit it 
out 

At Philip's beard: they pillage Spain al- 
ready. 

The French King winks at it. An hour 
will come 

When they will sweep her from the seas. 
No men? 

Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man;' 

Is not Lord William Howard a true man? 

Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black- 
blooded ; 

And I, by God, believe myself a man. 

Ay, even in the church there is a man — 

Cranmer. 

Fly, w ould he not, when all men hade him 
fly. 

And what a letter he wn.te against the 
Pope! 

There's a brave man, if any. 

Bagenhall. Ay; if it hold. 

Crotvd [coDiiiig cii). God save their 

Graces! 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. {Trumpets.) 
They are coming now. 

And here's a crowd as thick as herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, 01 
we are torn 

Down the strong wave of brawlers. 

Cro'ivd. God save their Graces! 

[Procession of Trumpeters, Javelin-nien, 
etc.; thin Spanish and Idem is h A'o- 
Ides in.terviingled. 

Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! These 
black dcg-Dons 



450 



Qi'EE.V MARY. 



Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long- 
face there, 
Looks very Spain of very Spain? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest? 

Bagtmhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Skifford. Why do they call him so? 

Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, some se- 
cret that may cost 
Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so merry. 
Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why they 
call him so. 
\The King and Queen pass, attended 
by Peers of the Realm, Offieers of 
State, etc. Cannon shot off. 
Crowd. Philip and Mary! Philip and 
Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip and 
Mary ! 
Stafford. They smile as if content with 

one another. 
Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a scowl 

at home. 
[King (?««' Queen /(jj'^ on. Procession. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip had 
been one of those -black devils of Spain, 
but he hath a yellow beard. 

Second Citizen. Not red like Iscariot's. 
First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as thou 
say'st, and English carrot's better than 
Spanish licorice; but I thought he was a 
beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard that 
every Spaniard carries a tail like a devil 
under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! 
Lord! they be fine; I never stitch'd none 
sucb. They make amends for the tails 

Fourth Citizen. Tut! every Spanish priest 
will tell you that all English heretics have 
tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil— if 
he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lollhou hast call'd them 
up ! here they come — a pale horse for Death, 
and Gardiner for the Devil. 

Enter Gardiner {turning back from the 
procession). 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy 
cap before the Queen? 



Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 

Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, some 
of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their hands. 
Thou art one of W^yatt's men? 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave? 
Man. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner [shouting). God's passion! 

knave, thy name? 
Man. I have ears to hear. 
Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears 
to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me [to At- 
tendant) . 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose thine 
ears and find thy tongue, 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. 

\^Co»iing before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine worthies — 

ay! 
But then what's here? King Marry with a 

scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei — verbuni — word of God! 
God's passion! do you know the knave that 
painted it? 
Attendant. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 

And put some fresh device in lieu of it — • 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my Lord. 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I 

am sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorant- 

And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English! over this the brainless loons. 
That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul, 
Make themselves dnmk and mad, fly out 

and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll have their Bibles V)urnt. 
The Bible is the priest's! Ay! fellow, 

what! 
Stand staring at me! shout, you gaping 
rogue. 
Alan. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am 

hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave? 
A/ati. Long live Queen Mary! 



QUEEN MARY. 



451 



Gardiner. Knave, there be two. There 
be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout. 

Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. 

Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip. 

Ma)i. Mary and Philip! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout 

for mine! 
Philip and Mary! 

Man. Must it be so, my Lord? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Man. Philip and Mary. 

Gardiner. I distrust thee 

Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. 
What is thy name? 

lilan. Sanders. 

Gardiner. "What else? 

]\Ian. Zerubbabel 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live? 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where? 

Man. Sign of the Talbot. 
Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow. — 

Rascal! — this land. is like a hill of fire, 
One crater opens when another shuts. 
But so I get the laws against the heretic, 
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake and fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves are 

easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

\^Exit. The crowd follozving. 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him mur- 
dered as Becket was? 
Bagenhall. No — murder fathers murder : 
but I say 
There is no man — there was one woman 

with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane? 

Crowd {going off). God save their 

Graces! 

Stafford. Did you see her die? 

Bagenhall. No, no; her innocent blood 

had blinded me. 

Yoti call me too blackblooded — true enough, 

Her dark dead blood is in my heart with 

mine. 



If ever I cry out against the Pope, 

Her dark dead blood that ever moves with 

mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make the 

cry. 
Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell me 

how she died? 
Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew eight 

languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her learn- 



Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so 
modest. 

So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 

Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I have 
heard 

She would not take a last farewell of him. 

She fear'd it might unman him for his end. 

She could not be unniann'd — no, nor out- 
woman 'd — 

Seventeen — a rcse of grace ! 

Girl never breathed to rival such a rose ; 

Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhall. She came upon the scaffold. 

And said she was condtmn'd to die for 
treason; 

She had but follow'd the device of those 

Her nearest kin : she thought they knew 
the laws. 

But for herself, she knew but little law. 

And nothing of the titles to the crown ; 

She had no desire for that, and wiung her 
hands. 

And trusted God would save her thro' the 
blood 

Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go en. 

I-agenhall. Then knelt and said the Mi- 
serere Mei — 

But all in English, mark you; rose, again, 

And, when the headsman pray'd to be for- 
given. 

Said, "You will give me my true crown at- 
last. 

But do it quickly ;" then all wept but 
she. 

Who changed not color when she saw the 
block. 

But ask'd him, childlike, " Will you take 
it off 

Before I lay me down ?" " No, madam," 
he said. 

Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes were 

i bound, 



452 



QUEEN MARY. 



She, with her poor blind hands feeling- — 

" Where is it ? 
Where is it ?" — You must fancy that which 

follow'd, 
If you have heart to do it! 

Crow J [in the distance). God save their 

Graces! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our disgraces! 

God confound them ! 
Why, she's grown bloodier! When I last 

was here, 
This was against her conscience — would be 

murder! 
Bagenhall. The " Tiiou shalt do no mur- 
der," which God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubbed out 

pale — 

She could not make it white — and over that, 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — <' Thou 

shalt!" 
And sign'd it — Mary! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's 

coming 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow down 

before him— 
You are of the house? what will you do, 

Sir Ralph? 
Bagenhall. And why should I be bolder 

than the rest, 
Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I— 

And oversea they say this state of yours 
I lath no more mortice than a tower of cards; 
And that a puff would do it — then if I 
And others made that move Itouch'dupon, 
Pack'd by the power of France, and landing 

here. 
Came with a sudden splendor, shout, and 

show. 
And dazzled men and deafen'd by some 

bright 
Loud venture, and the people so unquiet— 
And I the race of murder'd Buckingliam — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom — sir, 
I trust that you would fight along with us. 
Bagenhall. No ; you would fling yo«r 

lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's like 

to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone. 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet,and make 

us 



A .Spanish province ; would you not fight 
then? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 

Hist! there's the face coming on here of 

one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare 

you well. 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. Upon the scaftbld. \_Exemit. 

SCENE H.— ROOM IN WHITEHALL 

PALACE. 
Mary. Enter Philip and Cardinal Pole. 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Benedicta 

tu in mulieribus. 
Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest 
thanks. 
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river? 
Pole. We had your royal barge, and that 
same chair. 
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 
Our silver cross sparkled before the prow, 
The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 
The boats that follow'd were as glowing- 
gay 
As regal gardens; and your flocks of swams. 
As fair and white as angels; and your shores 
Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. 
, My foreign friends, who dream'd us blan- 
1 keted 

In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
i To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle; 
I And here the river flowing from the sea, 
Not toward it (for they thought not of our 
I tides), 

Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide — 
jIn quiet — home your banish'd countryman. 
I Mary. We heard that you were sick in 
Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
; Mary. And how came you round again? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved 
I her life; 

And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
j Mary. Well? now? 

' Pole. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant 
• Had but to touch the ground, liis iorce re- 

turn'd — 
I Thus, after twenty years of banishment, 



QUEEN MARY. 



453 



Feeling my native land beneath my foot, 
I said thereto: " Ah, native land of mine, 
Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine, 
That hastes with full commission from the 

Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return 
As Peter, but to bless thee: mark me well." 
I\Iethinks the good land heard me, for to- 
day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, 

cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death. 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let him in, 
But, Mary, there were those within the house 
Who would not have it. 

Mary. True, good cousin Pole; 

And there were also those without the house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are conjoint 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued me 



But all is well; 'twas ev'n the will of God, To Lambeth? 



The Emperor's highness happily syniboll'd 

by 
The King your husband, the Pope's Holi- 
ness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 

When will you that we summon both our 

houses 

To take this absolution from your lips, 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold? 

l^ole. In Britain's calendar the brightest 

day 
Beheld our rough forefathers break their 

gods. 
And clasp the faith in Christ; but after that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest 

day? 
Marv. Then these shall meet upon St. 

Andrew's day. 

Enter P.\gi-:t, icho presents the Coimeil. 
Ditinh s/uno. 

Po/e. I am an old man wearied with my 
journey 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. 



Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now 
Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 

"Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the faith. 
Sit benedictus fruclus ventris tui!" 

Mary. Ah, heaven! 

Pole. Unwell, your Grace? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave 

your hand 
To this great Catliolic King. 

Philip. Well said. Lord Legate. 

Mary. Nay, not well said; I thought of 
you, my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget 

Waits to present our Council to the l^egate. 

Sit .down here, all; Madam, between us 

you 

Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed with 
boards of cedar. 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs 



Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cran- 
mer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine should 

ive 
In Lambeth. 

Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 

Philip. We have had it swept and gar- 
nish 'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to enter in? 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted in 

the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of the 
Pope. • ^ 

Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 

Pole. Not be my Charon to the countrr 

side? 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord 

Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world; but Lam- 
beth palace; 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 

{^Exetmt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 
Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath awaked! 



You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting'He stirs within the darkness! 

here jOh, Philip, husband! now thy love to mine 

Between the two most high-set thrones on 1 Will cling more close, and those bleak man- 
earth, i ners thaw, 



454 



QUEEN MARY. 



That make me shamed and tongue-tied in 

my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the Faith, 
Who will avenge me of mine enemies — 
He comes, and my star rises. 
The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans — are pale 
Before my star! 
The light of this new learning wanes and 

dies: 
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their doom 
Before my star! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind! 
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples 

down; 
His faith shall clothe the world that shall 

be his. 
Like universal air and sunshine! Open, 
Ye everlasting gates! The King is here! — 
My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me; 
Good news have I to tell you, news to make 
Both of us happy — ay, the kingdom too. 
Nay come with me — one moment! 

Philip {to Alva). More than that: 

There was one here of late — William the 

Silent 
They call him — he is free enough in talk. 
But tells me nothing. You will be, we 

trust, 
Sometime the viceroy of those provinces^ 
He must deserve his surname better. 

Alva. Ay, sir. 

Inherit the Gr«at Silence. 

Philip. True; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled: 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind. 
All hollow'd out with stinging heresies; 
And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight: 
You must break them or they break you. 

Alva {proudly). The first. 

Philip. Gootl! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine. 

\Exetint. 

Enter Three Pages. 

First Page. News, mates! a miracle, a 
miracle ! 
The bjlls must ring: Te Deums must be 
sung; 



The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon. 

I found it fluttering at the palace gates: — 
" The Queen of England is delivered of a 
dead dog! " 
Third Page. These are the things that 

madden her." Fie upon it. 
First Page. Ay; but I hear she hath a 
dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
ThirdPage. Fie on her dropsy, so she 
have a dropsy! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are Ro- 
man to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must be. 

Take heed! 
First Page. Not I, 

And whether this flash of news be false or 

true. 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples clash. 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter day. 

\^Exeunt. 



SCENE 



IN 



III. — GREAT HALL 
WHITEHALL. 

\_At the far end a dais. On this three chairs, 
two under one canopy for Mary and 
Philip, another on the right of these for 
Pole. Cinder the dais on Pole's side, 
ranged along the wall, sit all the Spirit- 
ual Peers, and along the wall opposite, 
all the Temporal. 'J he Commons oji cross 
benches in front, a line of approach to the 
dais betiaeen them. In the foreground 
Sir Ralph BAGENHALL«W(7//^f;- Mem- 
bers of the Commons.] 

First A/ember. St. Andrew's day; sit 

close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word? the Pope again? 
It must be thus; and yet, cocksbody! how 

strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should have 

yielded 
So utterly! — strange! but stranger still that 

he. 
So fierce against the headship of the Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this pa 

geant 
That brings him in; such a cameleon he! 



QUEEN MARY. 



455 



Second Member. This Gardiner turn'd his 
coat in Henry's time; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will slough 
again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are ser- 
pents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 

Third Member. Ay, and for Gardiner! 
being English citizen. 
How should he bear a bridegroom out of 

Spain? 
The Queen would have him! being English 

churchman 
How should he bear the headship of the 

Pope? 
The Queen would have it! Statesmen that 

are wise 
Shape a necessity, as the sculptor clay. 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are wise 
Take truth herself for model, what say you? 
\To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Baf^enhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to talk? 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's hus- 
band. 
He's here, and King, or will be — yet, cocks 

body! 
So hated here! I watch'd a hive o/ late; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, my 

young boy; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm be 

hind. 
" Philip," says he. I had to cuff the rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that bees 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build him 

round. 
And bind him in from harming of their 

combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong the 
realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of beeswax, 
like your creeping thing: 
But your wise bees had stung him first to 
death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush! 
You wrong the Chancellor: the clauses 

added 
To that same treaty which the Emperor sent 



Hold office in the household, fleets, forts, 
army ; 

That if the Queen should die without a 
child. 

The bond between the kingdoms be dis- 
solved; 

That Philip should not mix us any way 

With his French wars— 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what secur- 

Good sir, for this, if Philip — 

Third Member. Peace— the Queen, 

Philip, and Pole. \^AU rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 



Were 



mainly 
eigner 



Gardiner's; that no for 



[Gardiner conducts them to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits on the 
QuEEN's/f"//, Pole 071 her right. 

Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before his 
winter plunge, 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's 
day. 
Mary. Should not this day be held in af- 
ter-years 
More solemn than of old? 

Thilip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Fole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Graces'; {aside) but the Pope — 
Can we not have the Catholic church as well 
Without as with the Italian? if we cannot, 
Why then the Pope. 

My Lords of the upper house, 
And ye, my masters, of the lower house. 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved? 
1^0 ices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind to 
supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, and acknowl- 
edge 
The primacy of the Pope? 

Voices. We are all of one mind, 

Gardiner. Then must I play the vassal 
to this Pole. \Aside. 

[He drains a paper from under his robes 
and presents it to t'he KiNG awr/QuEEN, 
who took through it and return it to him; 
then ascends a tribune, and reads. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, 
And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled. 
Presenting the whole body of this realm 
Of England, and dominions of the same, 



456 



QUEEN MARY. 



Do make most humble suit unto your .Ma- 
jesties, 
In our own name anci that of all the state, 
That by your gracious means and interces- 
sion 
Our supplication be exiiibited 
To the Lord Chancellor Pole, sent here as 

Legate 
From our Most Holy Father, Julius, Pope, 
And from the apostolic see of Rome; 
And do declare our penitence and grief 
For our long schism and disobedience, 
Either in making laws and ordinances 
Against the Holy Father's primacy. 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or prejudice the same; 
By this our supplication promising, 
As well for our own selves as all the realm, 
That now we be and ever shall be quick. 
Finder and with your Majesties' authorities, 
To do to the utmost all that in us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws and ordinances made; 
Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, 
As persons undefiled with our sffence. 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your intercession 
May from the apostolic see obtain, 
Thro' this most reverend Father, absolution, 
And full release from danger of all censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into. 
So that we may, as children penitent, 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church; 
And that this noble realm thro' after-years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 

Voices. Amen. \^AIl sit. 

\^IIe again presents the petition to the 
King and Queen, loho hand it reve- 
rentially /(? Pole. 

Pole {sitting). This is the loveliest day 
that ever smiled 

On England. All her breath should, in- 
cense like, 

Rise to the heavens, in grateful praise of 
Him 

Who now recalls her to his ancient fold. 

Lc! once again God to this realm hath 
given 

A token of His move especial Grace; 

For as this people were the hrst of all 

The islands call'd into the dawning church 



Out of the dead, deep night of heathendom, 
So now are th»se the first whom God hath 

given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism; 
And if your penitence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble! \A paztse. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not harm; 
We come not to condemn, but reconcile; 
We come not to compel, but call again; 
We come not to destroy, but edify; 
Nor yet to question things already done; 
These are forgiven — matters of the past — 
And range with jetsam and with oft'al thrown 
Into the blind sea of fotgetfulness. 

[A pause. 
Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us 
By him who sack'd the house of God; and 

we, 
AnipUer than any field on our pogr earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being sown. 
Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold, 
With heaven for earth. 

\^Rising and stretching forth his hands. 
All kneel but SiR Ralph Bagen- 
HALL, who rises and remains stand- 
ing. 

The Lord who hath redeem'd us 
With His own blood, and wash'd us from 

our sins. 
To purchase for Himself a stainless bride; 
He, whom the Father hath appointed Head 
Of all his church, He by His mercy absolve 

you ! [A pause. 

And we by that authority apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, 
Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth, 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the realm 
And its dominions from all heresy. 
All schism, and from all and every censure, 
Judgment, and pain accruing thereupon; 
And also we restore you to the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church. 

\^Turning to GARDINER. 
Our letters of commission will declare this 

plainlier. 
[Queen heard sobbing. Cries (t/" Amen ! 

Amen! Some of the members em- 



QUEEN MARY. 



457 



brace one another. All Inii SiR R Al.l'H 

Bagenhall /rtj.f out into the neigh- 

• boring chapel, ivhence is heard the 

7e Deitni. 

Bagenhall. We strove against the papacy 

from the first, 

In William's time, in our first Edward's 

time, 
And in my master Henry's time ; but 

now, 
The unity of Universal Church, 
Mary would liave it ; and this Gardiner 

follows ; 
The unity of Universal Hell, 
Philip would have it ; and this Gardiner 

follows ! 
A Parliament of imitative apes ! 
Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, 

who not 
Believes the Pope, nor any of them believe — 
These spaniel-Spaniard English of the 

time, 
Who rub their fawning noses in the dust. 
For that is Pfiilip's gold-dust, and adore 
This Vicar of their Vicar. W'ould I had 

been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head up 

then. 
I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter OFFICER. 

Officer. Sir Ralph ]5agenhall. 

hagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man in 

either house 

Who stood upright when both the houses 

fell. 

Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 

Officer. I mean the houses knelt 

Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your phrase 

But stretch it wider ; say when England fell. 

Officer. I say you were the one sole man 

who stood. 

Bagenhall. I am the one sole man in 

either house, 

Perchance in England, loves her like a son 

Officer. W'ell, you one man, because you 

stood upright. 

Her Grace the Queen commands you to the 

Tower. 

Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, or 

for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way would be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost. 



Bagenhall. What ! will she have my 

^ head ? 

Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Vour pardon. [Calling to attendant. 

By the river to the Tower. 

\^Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.—WAITEHALL. A ROOM 
IN THE PALACE. 

Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bon- 
ner, etc. 

Mary. The King and I, my Lords, now 

that all traitors 
Against our royal state have lost the heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their treasonous 

malice. 
Have talk'd together, and are well agreed 
That those old statutes touching Lollardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, should be 
No longer a dead letter, but requicken'd. 
One of the Council. W' hy, what hath fius- 

ter'd Gardiner ? How he rubs 
His forelock ! 

Paget. I have changed a word with him 

In coming, and may change a word again. 

Gardiner . Madam, your Highness is our 

sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of b®th may shine upon us. 
The faith that seem'd to droop will feel 

your light. 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light alone. 
There must be heat — there must be heat 

enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to the root. 
For what sailh Christ? "Compel them to 

come in." 
And what saith Paul? " I would they were 

cut off 
That trouble you." Let the dead letter live! 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whom 
Their ABC is darkness, clowns and grooms 
May read it! so you quash rebellion too, 
For heretic and traitor are all one; 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphisbrena, 
Each end a sting. Let the dead letter burn! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal Cath- 
olics, 
And many heretics loyal; heretic throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. 



458 



QUEEN MARY. 



To take the lives of others that are loyal,* 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom of 

fire, 
Were but a thankless policy in the crown. 
Ay, and against itself; for there are many. 
Mary. If we could burn out heresy, my 
Lord Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown of Eng- 
land — 
Ay! tho' it were ten Englands! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours, 
And care but little for the life to be. 

Paget. I have some time, for curiousness, 
my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at their life to be, 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies; 
Such is our time— all times for aught I know. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics that sting 
the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies that prick the 
flesh. 
Paget. They had not reach'd right reason, 
little children, 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and the 

power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha! 

Why, good! what then? granted! — we are 

fallen creatures; 
Look to your Bible, Paget! we are fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord 
Bishop, 

And may not read your Bible, yet I found 
One day, a wholesome scripture, " Little 

children. 
Love one another." 

Gardiner, Did you find a scripture, 

" I come not to bring peace, but a sword?" 

The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy, 
You are more than guess'd at as a heretic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. The faultless Gardiner! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the question; 

speak, Lord Legate. 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with your 
Grace, 
Rather would say — the shepherd doth not 

kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, but 

sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the fold. 



Look to the Netherlands, wherein have 

been 
Such holocausts of heresy! to what end? 
For yet the faith is not establish'd there. 
Gardiner. The end's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way will come, 

Seeing there lie two ways to every end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes: when men are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth with 

their own selves. 
And thence with others; then, who lights 

the faggot? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the 

Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these were 

trembling — 
But when did our Rome trenible? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's? 

Pole. What, my Lord! 

The Church on Peter's rock ? never! I have 

seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract; firm stood the pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To my 

mind. 
The cataract typed' the headlong plunge 

and fall 
Of heresy to the pit: the pine was Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 

It was the shadow of the Church that trem- 
bled; 
Your church was but a shadow of a church, 
Wanting the triple mitre, 

Gardiner {mtittering). Here be tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a 
naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly, 

Gardiner. Tropes again! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then 
without tropes, my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the waverer 

pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doctrines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by-and-by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs to 

light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Commonweal, 



QUEEN MARY. 



459 



The traitor-heretic) : then, tho' some may 

quail, 
Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, 
And their strong torment bravely borne, 

begets 
An admiration and an indignation. 
And hot desire to imitate; so the plague 
Of schism spreads; were there but three or 

four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would not say 
Burn! and we cannot burn whole towns; 

they are many, 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet, my Lord Cardinal — 

Pole. I am your Legate; please you let 

me finish. 
Methinks that under our Queen's regimen 
We might go softlier than with crimson 

rowel 
And streaming lash. When Herod-Henry 

first 
Began to batter at your English Church, 
This was the cause, and hence the judgment 

on her. 
She seethed with such adulteries, and the 

lives 
Of many among your churchmen were so 

foul 
That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I 

would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse the 

Church within , 
Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd. 
So after that when she once more is seen 
White as the light, the spotless bride of 

Christ, 
Like Christ Himself on Tabor, possil ly 
The Lutheran may be won to her again; 
Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. 
Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit your 

hand, my Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger off, 
Lest your whole body should madden with 

the poison? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the 

heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Is bounden by his power and place to see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate them ! 
Why? do they tolerate you? Nay, many 

of them 
Would burn — have burnt each other; call 

they not 
The one true faith a loathsome idol-wor- 
ship? 



Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime 
Than heresy is itself; beware, T say. 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion: for you know 
Right well that you yourself have been 

supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 

Pole [angered). But you, my Lord, beyond 

all supposition. 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce — the 

spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us: 
For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, 
And done your best to bastardize our Queen , 
For which God's righteous judgment fell 

upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, my 

Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who sobolster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the Church, 

or more 
Denied the Holy Father? 

Gardiner. Ha! what! eh? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, 
A bookman, flyingfrom the heat and tussle, 
You lived among your vines and oranges. 
In your soft Italy yonder! You weie sent 

for. 
You were appeal'd to, but you still pre- 

ferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I did, 
I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to 

learn 
That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. 
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty years, 

my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha! good! it seems then I 

was summon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend 

Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks 

zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad 

bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — and at 

once. 
What would'st thou dohad'st thou hispow 

er, thou 
That layest so long in heretic bonds with 

me? 



460 



QUEEN MARY. 



\Yould'st thou not burn and blast them root 

and branch? 

Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 

Gardiner . Nay, God's passion, before 

me! speak. 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see them 

tlame. 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing weav- 
ers, cobblers, scum — 

But this most noble prince Plantagenet, 

Our good Queen's cousin — dallying over 
seas 

Even when his brother's, nay, his noble 
mother's, 

Head fell— 

Pole. Peace, madman! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not 
fathom. 

Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chan- 
cellor 

(Jf England! no more rein upon thine an- 
ger 

Than any child ! Thou mak'st me much 
ashamed 

That I was for a moment wroth at thee. 
Mary. I come for counsel, and ye give 
me feuds. 

Like dogs that, set to watch their master's 
gate, 

Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the 
walls, 

To worrying one another. My Lord Chan- 
cellor, 

You have an old trick of oflfending us; 

vVnd but that you are art and part with us 

In purging heresy, well we might, for this 

Your violence and much roughness to the 
Legate; 

Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin 
Pole, 

You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire 
with me. 

His Highness and myself (so you allow us) 

Will let you learn in peace and privacy 

What power this cooler sun of England 
hath 

In breeding godless vermin. And pray 
Heaven 

That you may see according to our sight. 

Come, cousin. 

\^Exeiint QviEEN «;/</POLE, etc. 
Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet face, 

But not the force made them our mightiest 
kings. 

Fine eyes — but melancholy, irresolute — 



A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. 

But a weak mouth, ?n indeterminate — ha? 

Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, perchance. 

Gardiner. And not like thine, 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. 

Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord; but 

yet the Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, 
And if he go not with you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he 

tlush'd? 
Touch him upon his old heretical talk. 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his orthodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In those 

times. 
Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, 

or die; 
I kept my head for use of Holy Church; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge again, 
And let the Pope trample our rights, and 

plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why ? that these statutes may be put in 

force. 
And that his fan may thoroughly purge his 

floor. 
Bonner. 80 then you hold the Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 

What do I hold him ? what do I hold the 

Pope ? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this Car- 
dinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the 

Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred King 

of kings, 
God upon earth ! What more ? what would 

you have ? 
Hence, let's be gone. 

Enter Usher. 

Usher. Well that you be not gone, 

My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first 

with you. 
Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, 
So that you crave full pardon of tke Legate. 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! 

Did you hear 'em ? v/ere you by ? 

Usher. I cannot tell you, 



QUEEX MARY 



461 



His bearing is so courtlydelicate ; 

And yet methinks he falters : their two 

Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him, 
So press on him the duty which as Legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Cardmer. Smiles that burn men. Bon- 
ner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha ? 'fore God we change and 

change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors 

tell you. 
At three-score years ; then, if we change at 

all. 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief 

patience. 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it 
If Pole be like to turn. CJur old friend 

Cranmer, 
Vour more especial love, hath turn'd so 

often, 
He knows not where he stands, which, if 

this pass, 
We \wo shall have to teach him ; let 'em 

look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come. 
Their hour is hard at hand, the r " diesirce," 
Their " dies ilia," which will test their sect. 
I feel it but a duty — you will find in it 
rieasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner — 
To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. 

\^Excu}it. 

SCENE v.— WOODSTOCK. 
Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 

Lady. The colors of our Queen are green 
and white. 
These fields are only green, they make me 
gape. 
Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in 

masques, 
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and flow- 
ers 
In silken pageants. Why do they keep us 

here? 
Why still suspect your Grace? 

ElizabeOi. Hard upon both. 



[ Writes on the xvindo-vj zoith a diamond : 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothing proven tan be, 

Ouoili Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness written? 

Lilizahcih. A true rhynie. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond; so to last 
like truth. 

Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 

Lady. But truth, they say, will out, 

So it must last. It is not like a word, 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word! 

The very Truth and. very Word are one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl. 
Is like a word that comes from olden days. 
And passes thro' the peoples: every tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks 
Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names in the long 
sweep of time 
That so foreshortens greatness, may but 

hang 
On the chance mention of some fool that 

once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps; and my 

poor chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Cirace's innocence. 
Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire. 

Like that which lately crackled underfoot 
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, 
And cliar us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock against 

rain 
Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 

Elizabeth. Or true to you? 

Lady Sir Henry Bedingfield! 

I will have no man true to me, your Grace, 
But one that pares his nails; to me? the 

clown! 
For, like his cloak, his manners want the nap 
And gloss of court : but of this fire he says — 
Nay, swears — it was no wicked willfulness. 
Only a natural chance. 

EJizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked willfuls that men 
make. 



462 



QUEEN MARY. 



Nor shame to call it irature. Nay, I know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my daily 

range 
Among the pleasant Helds of Holy Writ, 
I might despair. But there hath some one 

come; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, and 

see. \Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid [singing xoithoiit) . 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Daisies grow againv . 

Kingcups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well, I vow; 
Cuff him could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Kingdoves coo again, 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red-cheek'd ; 

Robin was violent. 
And she was crafty — a sweet violence. 
And a sweet craft. I would I were a milk- 
maid, 
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, 

and die. 
Then have my simple headstone by the 

church, 
And all things lived and ended honestly. 
I could not if I would. I am Harry's 

daughter: 
Gardiner would have my head. They are 

not sweet. 
The violence and the craft that do divide 
The world of nature; what is weak must 

lie; 
The lion needs but roar to guard his young; 
The lapwing lies, says " here" when they 

are there. 
Threaten the child, " I'll scourge you if you 

did it." 
What weapon hath the child, save his soft 

tongue. 
To say " 1 did not?" and my rod's the block. 
I never lay my head upon the pillow 



But that 1 think, "Wilt thou lie there to- 
morrow?" 

How oft the falling axe, that never fell, 

Hath shock'd me back into the daylight 
truth 

That it may fall to-day! Those damp black, 
dead 

Nights in the Tower; dead — with the fear of 
death. 

Too dead ev'n for a death-watch! Toll of 
a bell. 

Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat 

Affrighted me, and then delight'd me 

For there was life — and there was life in 
death — 

The little murder'd princes, in a pale light. 

Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd,"Come 
away; 

The civil wars are gone for evermore: 

Thou last of all the Tudors, come away, 

With us is peace!" The last? It was a 
dream ; 

I must not dream, nor wink, but watch. 
She has gone. 

Maid Marian to her Robin — by-and-by 

Both happy! A fo.x may filch a hen by 
night. 

And make a morning outcry in the yard; 

But there's no Renard here to " catch her 
tripping." 

Catch me who can; yet, sometime I have 
wish'd 

That I were caught, and kill'd away at 
once 

Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gar- 
diner, 

Went on his knees, and pray'd me to con- 
fess 

In Wyatt's business, and to cast myself 

Upon the good (Queen's mercy; ay, when, 
my Lord? 

God save the Queen. My jailer — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedingjicld. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you from 

death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians here- 
about 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir; 

But I am royal, tho' your prisoner. 
And God hath blest or cursed me with a 

nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 



QUEEN MARY. 



463 



Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive from the 

Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness. 
Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen: 

last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it takes my 

breath : 

God, sir, do you look upon your boots. 
Are you so small a man? Help me: what 

think you, 
Is it life or death? 

Bedingfield. I thought not on my boots; 
The devil take all boots were ever made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here. 
For I will come no nearer to your Grace; 

\Layi)ig down the letter. 
And, whether it bring you bitter news or 

sweet. 
And God have given your Grace a nose, or 

not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then: 

It is the heat and narrowness of the cage 
That make the captive testy ; with free wing 
The world were all one Araby. Leave me 

now. 
Will you, companion to myself, sir? 

Bedingfield. Will I? 

W'ith most exceeding willingness, I will; 
You know I never come till I be call'd. 

[Exit. 
Elizabeth. It lies there folded: is there 
venom in it? 
A snake — and if I touch it, it may sting. 
Come, come, the worst! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. 

\^Reads : 

"It is the King's wish that you should wed 
Prince Philibert of Savoy. Vou are to come to 
Court on the instant ; and think of this in your 
coming. Mary the Queen." 

Think! I have many thoughts: 

1 think there may be birdlime here for me; 
I think they fain would have me from the 

realm ; 

I think the Queen may never bear a child : 
I think that I may be some time the Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed: no foreign prince or 

priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon the 

steps. 
1 think I will not marry any one, 



Specially not this landless Philibert 
Uf Savoy; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that I will play with Philibert — 
As once the Holy Father did with mine. 
Before my father married my good mother — 
For fear of Spain. 

E7tte7- LAin'. 

Lady. O Lord! your Grace, your Grace,. 
I feel so happy: it seems that we shall fly 
These bald, blank fields, and dance into- 

the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since",. 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here,. 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles; she is weeping now; 
For the wrong Roliin took her at her word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk was 

spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter order 
Had I been such. 

Lady {slyly). And had your Grace a 

Robin. 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill 
here: you want the sun 
That shines at Court; make ready for the 

journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Ready 
at once. [Exeunt, 

SCENE VI.— LONDON. A ROOM IN 
THE PALACE. 

Lord Petre and Lord William 
Howard. 

Petre. You cannot see the Queen. Re- 
nard denied her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Harvard. Their Flemish go-betweem 

And all-in-all. I came to thank her Ma- 
jesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall from the 

Tower; 
A grace to me! Mercy, that herb-of-grace,. 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Fetre. Only now, perhaps^ 

Because the Queen hath been three days in- 
tears 



464 



QUEEN MARY. 



For Philip's going— like the wild hedge- 
rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not probable, 
However, you have prov'n it. 

J/oward. I '""^t see her. 

Enter Renard. 
Renard. My Lords, you cannot see her 

Majesty. 
Hoivard. Why then the King ! for I would 

have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes past 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in hi 

heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self- 
Beast? — but they play with fire as children 

do, 
And burn the house. I know that these 

are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men 
Against the King, the Queen, the Holy 

Father, 
The faith itself. Can I not see him? 

Renard. Not now 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 



He should not vex her Highness: she would 

say 
These are the means God works with, that 
His church ' 

May flourish. 

Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 

To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. 
Thou knowest I bade my chaplaifl, Castro, 

preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and, when last he wrote, 

declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you were 

bland 
And affable to men of all estates. 
In hope to charm them from their hate of 
Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy un- 
der Spain. 
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a child? 



j-iiiu 111 «w 1.....,, ..._, -^ , — J J Yo go iwcive iiiuiuiib „ 

Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from her, ^^^ nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they 
Not hope to melt her. I will give your| j^j 

message. 

\^Exennt Betre and Howard 



Enter Philip {musing). 
Philip. She will not have Prince Phili 



bert of Savoy; 
I talk'd with her in vain — says she will live 
And die true maid— a goodly creature too. 
Would she had been the Queen! yet she 

must have him; 
She troubles England: that she breathes in 

England: 
Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

.Simon Renard! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what was he 

saying? 
Renard. What your imperial father said, 

my liege. 
To deal with heresy gentlier, Gardiner 

burns. 
And Bonner burns; and it would seem this 

people 
Care more for our brief life in their wet 

land, 
Than yours in happier Spain, I told my 

Lord 



yo^ri led 

Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their 

bells, 
Shot off" their lying cannon, and her priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince 

to come. 
Till, by St. James! I find myself the fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? 
Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. .So, weary am I of this wet land 
of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes there- 



Renard. My liege, we must not drop 
the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it? 

I have but shown a loathing face to you. 
Who knew it from the first. 
Enter Marv. 

Mary (aside.) With Renavd. Still 

Parleying with Renard, all the day with 

Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 

me — 
And goes to-morrow. [^E.rit Makv. 



QUEEN MARY. 



465 



Philip {to Renard, 'iOhoadvauccsto Jiim) 

Well, sir, is there more? 
Rciiard (zi'/io has pt-rfciiu-d the Oieen) 
May Simon Renard speak a single word? 
Philip. Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it? 

Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single word 

That could not be forgiven. 

Kcnard. Well, my liege, 

Vour Grace hath a most chaste and loving 

wife. 

Philip. Why not? The Queen of Philip 

should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you know 
what Virgil sings. 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. She play the harlot! never. 
Renard. No, sire, no. 

Xot dream'd of by the rabidest Gospeller 
There was a paper thrown into the palace, 
''The King hath wearied of his barren 

bride." 

.She came upon it, read it, and then rent it. 
With all the rage of one who hates a truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have 

you — 
What should I say, I cannot pick my words 
Be somewhat less — majestic to your Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my manners 
Simon Renard, 
Because these islanders are brutal beasts? 
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, 
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of hers? 
Renard. Brief- sighted tho' they be, I 
have seen them, sire. 
When you perchance were trifling royally 
With some fair dame of Court, suddenly fill 
With such fierce fire — had it been fire indeed 
It would have burnt both speakers. 

Philip. Ay, and then? 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy in 
some matter 
Of small importance now and then to cede 
A point to her demand? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love, when you 
are gone, my liege, 
Witness these papers, there will not be 

wanting 
Those that will urge her injury. Should her 

love — 
And I have known such women more than 

one— 
\ eer to the counterpoint (and jealousy 



Ilath in it an alchemic force to fuse 
.\lmost into one metal love and hate). 
And she impress hei wrongs upon her Coun- 
cil, 
And these again upon her Parliament — 
We are not loved here, and would be then 

perhaps 
N(ft so well holpen in our wars with Fiance, 
As else she might be. Here she ccmes. 
Enter Mary. 
Mary. O Philip! 

Nay, must you go indeed? 

Philip. Madam, 1 must. 

JMary. The parting of a husband and 
a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half 
Will flutter here, one there. 

Pliilip. You !-ay true, Madam. 

Alarv. The Holy \'irgin will not have me 

'yet 

Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince. 

If such a prince were born and you not here! 

Philip. I should be here if such a prince 

were born. 
Mary. But must you go? 
Philip. Madam, you know my father, 

Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to htaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the 

world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet at 

Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be forking, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me. 
And wait my coming liack. 

Mary. To Dover? n<i, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, 
So you will have me with you; and there 

watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor land, 

and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for 
you. 
P'hilip. And doubtless I shall profit by 

your prayers. 
Alary. Methinks that would you tarry one 
day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould my- 
self 
To Ijear your going better; will you do it? 
Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save 

a realm. 
Mary. A day may save a heart from break- 
'in" t(,'0. 



466 



QUEEN MARY. 



Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall we 

stop a day? 
Renard. Your Grace's business will not 

suffer, sire, 
For one day more, so far as I can 

tell. 
PJiilip. Then one day more to please her 

Majesty. • 

Mary. The sunshine sweeps across my 

life again. 



Oh if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, 
As I do! 

Philip. By St. James! I do protest, 

Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard, 
I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. 

\Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I.— A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Mary, Cardinal Pole. 

Mary. What have you there? 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your 

Grace. 
Hath he not written himself — infatuated — 
To sue you for his life? • 

Mary. His life? Oh, no; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were in vain. 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me not 

to sully 
Mine own prerogative, and degrade the 

realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 
Against my natural subject. King and 

Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince? 
Death would not grieve him more. I cannot 

be 
True to this realm of England and the Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 



Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Cranmerites. 

Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord 
William Howard. 

Hozoard. Health to your Grace! Good 
morrow, my Lord Cardinal; 
We make our humble prayer unto your 

Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign 

parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 

Paget. Ay, ay; if Bonner have not forged 

the bills. [Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher? he 

must burn. 
Howard. He hath recanted. Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in purgatory, not in hell. 

Ilotuard. Ay, ay, your Grace; but it was 
never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth. 
Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. O Madam, Madam! 

I thus implore you, low upon my knees. 
To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. 
I have err'd with him; with him I have re- 
canted. 
What human reason is there why my friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than myself? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this: After a 
riot 
We hang the leaders, let their following go. 



QUEEN MARY. 



467 



Cranmer is head and father of these lieie- 

sies, 
New learning, as they call it; vea, may 

God 
Forget me at most need when I forget 
Her foul "divorce — my sainted mother — 

No!— 
Howard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors 

doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver'd; and more than 

one 
Row'd in that galley — Gardiner, to wit, 
Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his 

book, 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical books 
That none shall hold them in his house and 

live. 
Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Hozvard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was a man 
Of such colossal kinghood, yet so courteous, 
Except when wroth, you scarce could meet 

his eye 
And hold your own; and were he wroth 

indeed, 
You held it less, or not at all. I say. 
Your father had a will that beat men down; 
Your father had a brain that beat men 

down — 
Pole. Not me, my Lord. 
Howard. No, for you were not here; 
You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne; 
And it would more become you, my Lord 

Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her High- 
ness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand 
On naked'self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must burn. 
Howard. Yet once he saved your Majes- 
ty's own life: 
Stood out against the King in your behalf, 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such boon. 
That I should spare to take a heretic priest's 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do you 

vex me? 



Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to serve 
the Church, 
Your Majesty's, I mean; he is effaced. 
Self-blotted out; so wounded in his honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your Highness 

knows 
The saying, " Martyr's blood — seed of the 
Church." 
Mary. Of the true Church; but his is 
none, nor will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath'd a life. 
It were more merciful to burn him now. 
Thirlby. O yet relent. O Madam, if 
you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still. 

His learning makes his burning the more 
just. 
Thirlby. So worshipt of all those that 
came across him: 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 
house — 
Mary. His children and his concubine, 

b.elike. 
Thirlby. To do him any wrong was to 
beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, 
Of such fine mould that if you sow'd therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
'Pole. " After his kind it costs him noth- 
ing," there's 
An old-world English adage to the point. 
These are but natural graces, my good 

Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers, 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
Howard. Such weeds make dunghills 

gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will. 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he should 

burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, Madam. 

God grant you ampler mercy at your call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

\_Exeimt Lords. 
Pole. After this, 

Your Grace~will hardly care to overlook 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Cranmer's life. 



468 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 

\_Exciait. 

SCENE II.— OXFORD. CRANMER IN 
PRISON. 

Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the fag- 
gots were alight, 
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake. 
And found it all a visionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood; 
And then King Harry look'd from out a 

cloud, 
And bade me have good courage; and I 

heard 
An angel cry, " There is more joy in heav- 
en," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the dead. 

[^Trumpets without. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing now : 
what is it? 

Enter Father Cole. 
Cole. Cranmer, I come to question you 
again: 
Have you remain 'd in the true Catholic 

faith 
I left you in? 

CrantJier. In the true Catholic faith, 

By Heaven's grace, I am more and more 

conflrm'd. 

Why are the trumpets blowing. Father Cole? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the Coun 
cil 
That you to-day should read your recanta 

tion 
Before the people in Saint Mary's Church. 
And there be many heretics in the town. 
Who loathe you for your late return to 

Rome, 
And might assail you passing through the 

street. 
And tear you piecemeal : so you iiave a 
guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I thank 

the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I? 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then 

I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 

[^Exit Cole 



Cranmer. It is against all precedent to 

burn 
One who recants; they mean to pardon me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor who 

die. 
W^ell, burn me or not burn me, T am fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass: 
A holy supper, not a sacrifice; 
No man can make his maker — Villa Garcia. 



Enter Villa Garcia. 



this 



Villa Garcia. Pray you write out 

paper for me, Cranmer. 
Cranmer. Have I not writ enough to sat- 
isfy you? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

[He 7V rites. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have signed enough, I will 

sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than what 
you have signed already. 
The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 
Villa Garcia. But this is idle of you. 
Well, sir, well. 
You are to beg the people to pray for you; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life; 
Declare the Queen's right to the throne; 

confess 
Your faith before all hearers; and retract 
That eucharistic doctrine in your book. 
Will you not sign it now? 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy on 
me? 
Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes of 
mercy! So, farewell. [Exit. 

Cra)imer. Good hopes, not theirs, have 
I that I am fixt, 
Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours. 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thpusand-times-recurring argument 
Of those two friars ever in my prison. 
When left alone in my despondency, 
Without a friend, a book, my faith would 

seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swarm heav- 

ily 
Against the huge corruptions of the Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, " What am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages?" was it so, 



QUEEN MARY 



469 



Or am I slandering my most inward friend. 
To veil the fault of my most outward foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee, and not leave thee any 

more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast! 
l^lVritcs). So, so; this will I say — thus will 

I pray. [/'«A up the paper. 

Enter Bonner. 

Bonner. Good day, old friend. What! 

you look somewhat worn: 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Ev'n at the best. I scarce have spoken 

with you 
Since when? — your degradation. At your 

trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than you; 
Vou would not cap the Pope's commis- 
sioner — "V 
Your learning, and your stoutness, and your 

heresy, 
Dumfounded half of us. So, after that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, 
And make you simple Cranmeronce again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil ; 
And, worse than all, you had to kneel to me: 
Which was not pleasant for you, Master 

Cranmer. 
Now you, that would not recognize the 

Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the stake. 
Which frights you back into the ancient 

faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen, Master Cran 

mer ! 
Cranmer. You have been more fierci 

against the Pope than I; 
But why fling back the stone he strikes me 

wjth? \Aside. 

O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try faith by 

fire- 
Pray you, remembering hov/ yourself have 

changed. 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, 
To the poor flock — to women and to child- 
ren — 
That when I was archbishop held with me. 



Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call you — 
live or die! 

Pitiful to this pitiful heresy? 

I must obey the Queen and Council, man. 

Win thro' this day with honor to yourself, 

And I'll say something for you; so, good- 
bye. S^Exit. 
Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old 
hath crouch'd to me 

Till I myself was half ashamed for him. 

Enter Thiri.by. 

Weep not, good Thirlby. 

T/iirlfiy. Oh, my Lord, my Lord! 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's is: 
Who would not weep? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord me, 
Who am disgraced? 

Thirlby. On earth; but saved in heaven 
By your recanting. 

Cranmer. Will they burn me, Thirlby? 
Thirlby. Alas, they will! These burnings 
will not help 
The purpose of the faith; but my poor 

voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cranmer. «And they will surely burn me? 
Thirlby. Ay; and, besides, will have 
you in the church 
Repeat the recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls, 
Before your execution. May God help you 
Thro' that hard hour. 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby. 
Well, they shall hear my recantation there. 
[Exit Thirlby. 
Disgraced, dishonor' d!. — not by them, in- 
deed. 
By mine own self — by mine own hand! 
O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of 

Kent! 
But then she was a witch. You have writ- 
ten much. 
But you were never raised to plead for 

Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was de- 

liver'd. 
To the secular arm to burn; and there was 

Lambert; 
Who can foresee himself? Truly these 
burnings, 



MO 



QUEEN MARY. 



As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners, 
And help the other side. You shall burn 

too, 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony! Lati- 
mer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. Hooper 

burn'd 
Three quarters of an hour. Will my faggots 
Be wet as his were? It is a day of rain. 
I will not muse upon it. 
My fancy takes the burner's part, and makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength. 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Enter SOTO and ViLLA GARCIA. 
Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master Gran 

mer. 
Cranmer. And I: lead on; ye loose me 

from my bonds. \Exeunt. 

SCENE HI.— ST. MARY'S CHURCH. 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams of 
Thame presiding. Lord William 
Howard, Lord Paget, and others. 
Cranmer enters between vSoro and 
Villa Garcia, and the ivhole Choir 
strike np "Nunc Uimittis." Cranmer 
is set upon a Scaffold before the people. 
Cole. Behold him — 

\_A pause: people in the foreground. 
People. Oh, unhappy sight! 
First Protestant. .See how the tears run 
down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 
ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he dies; 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up there? 
I wish some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and 
all. 
Cole. Behold him, brethren: he hath 
cause to weep! — 
So have we all: weep with him if ye will, 
Yet— 

It is expedient for one man to die. 
Yea, for the people, lest the people die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath re 

turn'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors? 



Protestant murmurs. Ay, tell us that. 
Cole. Those of the wrong side will de- 
spise the man. 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of 

death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom. 
Cranmer. Ay. 

Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there may 
seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at this 

time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath been 

a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm; 
And when the King's divorce was sued at 

Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan. 
As if J|e had been the Holy Father, sat 
And judged it. Did I call him heretic? 
A huge heresiarch! Never was it known 
That any man so writing, preaching so. 
So poisoning the Church, so long continu- 
ing, 
Hath found his pardon; therefore he must 

die. 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's ending, which our 

Queen 
And Council at this present deem it not 
Expedient to be known. 

Protestant murmurs. I warrant you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, example by this 
man; 
For if our holy Queen not pardon him. 
Much less shall others in like cause escape. 
That all of you, the highest as the lowest. 
May learn there is no power against the Lord. 
There stands a man,onceof so high degree. 
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first 
In Council, second person in the realm. 
Friend for so long time of a mighty King; 
And now ye see downfallen and debased 
From councillor to caitiff — fallen so low, 
TheJcprous ilutterings of the byway, scum 
And offal of the city, would not change 
Estates with him; in brief, so miserable, 
There is no hope of better left for him, 
No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 
This is the work of God. He is glorified 



QUEEN MARY. 



471 



In thy conversion: lo! thou art reclaim'd; 
He brings thee home: nor fear l)ut that to- 
day 
Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's award, 
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. 
Remember how God made the fierce fire 

seem 
To those three children like a pleasant dew. 
Remember, too, 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross, 
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. 
Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints, 
God will beat down the fury of the flame. 
Or j;ive thee saintly strength to undergo. 
And for thy soul shall masses here be sung 
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, 

pray for me; 
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul 

for me. 
Cole. And now, lest any one among you 

doubt 

The man's conversion and remorse of heart, 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, 

Master Cranmer, 

Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaim 

Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear 

Craiti/icr. And that I will. O God, 

Father of heaven! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world 

Holy Ghost! proceeding from them both. 
Three persons and one God, have mercy on 

me, 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have oiifended against heaven and earth 
More grievously than any tongue can tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any help? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven. 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then? God forbid! O God, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 
That com^to Thee for succor, unto Thee 
Therefore, I come; humble myself to Thee; 
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be 

great, 
For thy great mercy have mercy! O God 

the .Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou be- 

camest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery 

wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death; 
But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd. 



Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, 
Unpardonable,— sin against the light. 
The truth of God, which I had proven and 

known. 
Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. 
Forgive me. Father, for no merit of mine, 
But that Thy name by man be glorified. 
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for 

man. 
Good peoj)le, every man at time of death 
Would fain set forth some saying that may 

live 

After his death and better humankind; 
For death gives life's last word a power to 

live. 
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God! 
And first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and fly. 
They care for nothing else. What saith St. 

John?— 
" Love of this world is hatred against God." 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unniurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not for 

dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to love together 
Like brethren; yet what hatred Christian 

men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as breth- 
ren. 
But mortal foes! But do you good to all 
As much as in you lieth. "Hurt no man 

more 
Than you would harm your loving natural 

brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any do. 
Albeit he think himself at home with God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away. 
ProtcstiDit nnirmurs. What sort of broth- 
ers then be those that lust 
To burn each other? 

Willia7ns. Peace among you, there. 

Cran/ne?-. Fourthly, to those that own 

exceeding wealth. 
Remember that sore saying spoken once 
By Him that was the truth, '< How hard it 

is 
For the rich man to enter into heaven!" 
Let all rich men remember that hard word. 
I have not time for more: if ever, now 



472 



QL'EEX MARY 



Lei them flow forth in charity, seeing now 
The poor so many, and all food so dear. 
Long have I lain in prison, yet have heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the 

poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor. 
And now, and forasmuch as I have come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to be, 
Either to live with Christ in heaven with 

j"y, 
Or to be still in pain with devils in hell; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 

\ Pointing upwards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, 

[Poinfing down^i'arJs. 
I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 

Cranmer. I do believe in God, Father 
of all: 
In every article of the Catholic faith. 
And every syllable taught us by our Lord,' 
His prophets, and apostles, in the Testa- 
ments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 

Craniiu-r. And now I come to the great 
cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more tiian anything 
Or said or done in all my life by me; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth 1 knew within my heart, 
Written for fear of death, to save my life, 
If that might be; the papers by my hand 
Sign'd since my degradation — l)y this hand 
[/folding out his right hand. 
W^ritten and sign'd — I here renounce them 

all; 
And, since my hand offended, having writ- 
ten 
Against my heart, my hand shall first be 

burnt, 
So I may come to the fire. [Dead silence 
[^Protestant iniiriniirs 
J-'irst Protestant. 1 knew it would be so 
Second Protestant. Our prayers are heard ! 
Third Protestant . God bless liim! 
Catholic munnurs. Out upon him! out 
upon him! 
Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the fire! 

\-Villianis [raising Iiis voice). You know 
that you recanted all you said 
Touching the sacrament in that same book 
You wrote against mv Lord of Winchester. 



play the plain Christian 



Dissemble m 
man. 
Cranmer. Alas! my Lord, 
I have been a man loved jjlainness all my 

life; 
I did dissend)le, but the hoiu- has come 
For utter tiuth and jilainness; wherefore, I 

.say, 
I hold by all I wrute within that book. 
Moreover, 

As for the Pojie 1 count him Antichrist, 
With all his devil's doctrines; and refuse, 
Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. 
[Cries on all sides, "Pull him down! 

Away with him !" 
Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth. Hale 

him away. 
Willia/ns. Harm him not, harm him not, 

have him to the fire. 
Cranmkr goes out betioeen two Friars, 
smiling; hands are reached to him from 
the crowd. Lord William 1 1 d \v a u i > 
and Loud I'AGET are left alone in the 
church. 
J'aget. The nave and aisles all emjHy as 
a fool's jest! 
No, here's Lord William Howard. What, 

my Lonl ! 
You have uol gone to see the burning? 

/Anaard. I'ie! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a show. 
And watch a good man burn. Never again. 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. 
Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I wouKl not. 
For the pure honor of our common nature, 
Hear what I might — another recantation 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

Paget. Ytni'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd up- 
right; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the gen- 
eral 
He looks to and he leans on as his God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness and 

bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the jiikes and 
dies. 
Howard. Yel that he might not, after all 
those [lapers 
Of recantation, yield again, who knows? 
Paget. Papers of recantation! Think 
you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he 
si"n'd? 



QUEE.V A/. I A']: 



473 



Or sign'd all those they tell us that he 

sign'd? 
Nay, I trow not: and vou sliall see, my 

Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or anothei 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His ending to the glory of their church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridley die? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not? His best 
Of life was over then. 

Ho-Mord. His eighty years 

Look'd somewliat crooked on him in his 

frieze; 
liut after they had stript him to his shroud, 
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one, 
And gather'd with his liands the starting 

Hanie, 
And wash'd liis liands and all his face 

therein. 
Until the powder suddenly Ijlew him dead. 
Ridley was longer l)urning, Ijut he died 
As manfully and boldly: and, 'fore God, 
I l<now them heretics, l)ut right English 

ones. 
Jf ever, as Heaven grant, we clash with 

Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiei-S and our Latimer-sail- 

ors 
Will teach her something. 

J\iget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro' 

it. 

[. / murntiir of tJic croi^'d in tin- distance . 

Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl 

and bay him. 
Howard. Might it not Ije the other side 

rejoicing 
In his brave end? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too broken. 
They can but weep in silence. 

Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have l^roiight it in large measure on 

themselves. 
Havel not heard them mock the blessed 

Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his 

claim 
To being in God's image more than they? 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, thegroom. 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the i)arson's 

place, 
The parson from his own spire swung out 

dead, 



And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all 

men 
Regarding her? I say they have drawn the 

fire 
On their own heads: yet, Paget, I do hold 
The Catholic, if he have the greater right. 
Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and reaction. 

The miserable see-saw of our child-world. 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord. 
Heaven help that this reaction not react. 
Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us. 

Hoivard. The world's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a drunk- 
en man. 
Who cannot move straight to his end — but 

reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the left, 
Push'd l)y the crowd beside — and underfoot 
An earthquake; for since Henry for a 

doubt — 
Which a voung lust had clajit upon the 

liack, 
Crying, "'Eorward" — set oin- old church 

rocking, men 
Have hardly known what to l)elieve, or 

whether 
They should believe in anything; the cur- 
rents 
So shift and change, they see not how they 

are borne. 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast; 
Verily a lion, if you will— the world 
A most obedient lieast and fool — myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining to it; 
Allho' your Lordship hath as little of each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay 
As may be consonant with mortality. 

Ilo'ajard. We talk, and Cranmer suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land! 
Hard-natured Queen, half Spanish in her- 
self, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of 

Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, 
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day, 
Gone narrowing down and darkening to a 

close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I fear. 
Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 
Howard. O Paget, Paget! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, 



474 



QUEEN MARY. 



Expectant of the rack from day to day, 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming sew- 
ers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the 

tongue, 
And putrid water, every drop a Worm, 
Until they died of rotten limbs; and then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and become 
Hideously alive again from head to heel. 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hale and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick; these things are 
done. 
Done right against the promise of this Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my Lord! 
Hist! there be two old gossips — Gospellers, 
I take it; stand behind the pillar here; 
I warrant you they talk about the burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her TiB. 

yoan. Why, it be Tib. 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't 
make tha hear. Eh, the wind and the wet! 
What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judg- 
ment-daay loike. Pwoaps be pretty things, 
Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer 
o' that day. 

yoan. I must set down myself, Tib; it be 
a var waay vor my owld legs up vro' Islip 
Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be 
I to win the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by now. 
I'd ha' been here avore, but Dumble wur 
blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best 
milcher in Islip. 

yoan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

yoan. Our Daisy's butter's as good 'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

yoan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

yoan. Eh, then ha' thy way wi' me, Tib; 
ez thou hast wi' thy owld man. 

lib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up 
and awaay betimes wi' dree hard eggs for a 
good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the 
wet, 1 lodge 'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' 
white peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' the 



wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 
'z we was forced to stick her, but we fetched 
her round at last. Thank the Lord, there- 
vore. Dumble's the best milcher in Islip. 

yoan. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, 
Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats me! Eh, 
but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad 
things; tell 'ee now, I heerd summat as 
summun towld summun o' owld Bishop 
(lardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a- 
cum to dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to 
bide howsomiver, vor " I wunt dine," says 
my Lord Bishop, says he, " not till I hears 
ez Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;" and so 
they bided on and on till vour o' the clock, 
till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells 
un ez the vire has tuk holt, " Now," says 
the bishop, says he, " we'llgwo to dinner;" 
and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, 
Ciod bless un ; but Gardiner wur struck down 
like by the hand o' God avore a could taste 
a mossel, and a set him all a-vire, so 'z the 
tongue on un cum a-lolluping out o' 'is 
mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, 
therevore. 

Paget. The fools! . 

lib. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes 
on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to git her baaby 
born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn 
out the hypocrisy that makes the water in 
her. There's nought but the vire of God's 
hell ez can burn out that. 

yoan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

J'aget. The fools! 

Tib. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a- 
makin' o' volk madder and madder; but tek 
thou my word vor't, Joan — and I bean't 
wrong not twice i' ten year — the burnin' o' 
the owld archbishop 'ill burn the Pwoap 
out o' this 'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you brace 
of cursed crones. 
Or I will have you duck'd. { Women hurry 

out.) Said I not right? 
For how should reverend prelate or throned 

prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malignity? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 
brew'd! 

Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor gar- 
rulous country wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with 

you; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. 



QUEEN MARY. 



475 



HoivaicL I think that in some sort we 
may. But see, 

Enhr Peters. 

Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, 
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's 

fire. 
One that woidd neither misreport nor lie. 
Not to gain Paradise: no, nor if the Pope 



Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the 

chain 
Wherewith they bound him to the stake, 

he stood. 
More like an ancient father of the Church 
Than heretic of these times; and still the 

friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his 

head. 



Charged him to do it — he is white as!C)r answer 'd them in smiling negatives; 



death. 
Peters, how pale you look! you bring the 

smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me 
round. 
Howard. Peters, you know me Catholic, 
ut Englisk. 



Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden try : - 

" Make short! make short!" and so they 
lit the wood. 

Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to hea- 
ven, 

And thrust his right into the bitter flaiiie; 

And crying, in his deep voice, more than 
once, 
This hath offended — this unworthy hand!" 



Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave So held it till it all was burn'd, before 
All else untold. The flame had reach'd his body. 1 stood 

Peters. My Lord, he died most bjavely. 



Howard. Then tell me all. 

J\igr/. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 



Mark' dhim — he never utter' d moan of 
pain: 



J'eters. You saw iiim how lie past among He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a 
the crowd; I statue, 

And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars iUnmoving in the greatness of the flame, 
.Still plied him with entreaty and reproach: I Gave up the ghost; and so jiast martyr- 
Hut Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm like — 

Steers, ever looking to the happy haven ^lartyr I may not call him — past — but 
Where he shall rest at night, moved to his whither? 

death ; 



Paget. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. 

Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied 
purgatory. 

Paget. Why, then to heaven, and God 
ha' mercy on him. 

Howard. Paget, despite his fearful here- 
sies. 



And I could see that many silent hands 
Came from the crowd and met his own; 

and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley burnt 

with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose 

mind I loved the man, and needs must moan for 

Is all made up, in haste put off the rags j him; 

They had mock'd his misery with, and all O Cranmer! 

in white, j Paget-. But your moan is useless now; 

His long white l>eard, which he had never. Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. 

shaven \^E.xetint. 



ACT V. 



SCENE 



I. — LONDON. HALL 
THE PALACE. 



IN 



Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. Madam, 
1 do assure you that it must be look'd to 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the I 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd 

to, 
If war should fall between yourself and 

France; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Alarv. It shall be look'd to; 

I wish you a good-morning, good Sir 

Nicholas: 
Mere is the King. \^Exit Heath. 

Eiiicr Philip. 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 
Alary. Go! must you go, indeed — again 
— so soon? 
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow, 
That might live always in the sun's warm 

heart. 
Stays longer here in our poor north than 

you — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes again. 
Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 
Mary. Oh, will you? will you? 

I am faint with fear that you will come no 
more. 
Philip. Ay, ay; but many voices call 

me hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy rumors 
— nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices call you 
Dearer than mine that should be dearest 

to you? 
Alas, my Lord! what voices, and how many? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan — 
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the 

Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the East. 
(476) 



Mary {admiringly). You are the mightiest 
monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen; and so, indeed. 
Need, you the more; and wherefore could 

you not 
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege. 
Here, by the side of her who loves you most? 
Philip. No, Madam, no! a candle in 
the sun 
Is all but smoke — a star beside the moon 
Is all but lost; your people will not crown 

me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your clime; 
Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the 

gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard — there an Eng- 
lishman ; 
The peoples are unlike as their complexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallow and return — 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help mc.^ 

They hate >iie also for my love to you. 
My Philip; and these judgments on the 

land — 
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, 
plague — 
Philip. The blood and sweat of heretics 
at the stake 
Is Ciod's best dew upon the barren fields. 
13 urn more! 

Mary. I will, I will; and you will stay. 
Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, I 
came to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare war. 
Mary. Sir, there are many English in 
your ranks 
To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and yourself 
To declare war against the King of France, 
Mary. Not to see me? 
Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 

Unalterably and pesteringly fond. \Aside. 
But, soon or late you must have war with 

France; 
King Henry warms your traitors at his 

hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there. 
Courtenay, belike — 

Mary. A fool and featherhead! 



QUEEN MARY. 



477 



Philip. Ay, but they use his name. In 

brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the intent 
That you may lose your English heritage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, Eng- 
land, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now col- 
leagued with France; 
You make your wars upon him down in 

Italy : — 
Philip, can that be well? 

Philip. Content you, Madam; 

You must abide my judgment, and my 

father's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy war. 
The Pope would cast the vSpaniard out of 

Naples : 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 

Saracens. 
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond his 

mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns. 
And he withdraws; and of his holy head — 
For Alva is true son of the true churcii— 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me; 

here? J 

Mary. Alas ! the Council will not hear^ 

of war. 
They say your wars are not the wars of 

England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you 

know 
The crown is poor. We have given the 

church-lands back: 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt their 

hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd; and there- 
fore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to be 

done? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause again. 
And we will raise us loans and subsidies 
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas 

Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the 

Jews. 
Philip. Madam, my thanks. I 

Mary. And you will stay your going?! 
Philip. And further to discourage and lay 

lame 
f he plots of France, altho' you love her not,i 



You must proclaim Elizab th your heir. 
She stands between you and the Queen of 
Scots. 
Mary. The Queen of Scots at least is 

Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but I 
will not have 
The King of France the King of England 
too. 
Mary. But she's a heretic, and, when I 
am gone, 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 
Alary. Then it is done; Init you will stay 
your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose? 
Philip. No! 

Mary. What, not one day? 
Philip. You beat upon the rock. 

Alary. And I am broken there. 
Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in. Madam? what! a public hall! 
Go in, I pray you. 

Alary. Do not seem so changed. 
Say go; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am not one 
to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Alary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. ' Ay. \Exit Mary. 

Enter CuiNT DE Feria. 

Pcria (aside'). The Queen in tears. 
Philip. P'erial 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer to mine 

ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath 

grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child? • 
Fcria. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd 

it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise mark'd 
Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a Queen, indeed? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer as be- 
fore — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I. 
Philip. Good, now; methinks my Queen 
is like enough 
To leave me by-and-by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. Eliza- 
beth— 



478 



QUEEN MARY. 



To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, 
We meant to wed her; but I am not sure 
She will not serve me better — so my Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 

Feria. Sire, even so. 

7%27?)>. She will not have Prince Phili- 
bert of Savoy. 

Feria. No, sire. 

Philip. I have to pray you, some odd time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly on this; 
Not as from me, but as your phantasy; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that Philibert 
Shall be the man; and I shall urge his suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not certain: 
Vou understand, Feria? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret in this 
matter. 
You understand me there, too? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and supple, 
like a Frenchman. 
She is none of those who loathe the honey- 
comb. \Exit Feria. 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly 

tidings. 
Philip. Well. 

Renard. There imll be war with France, 
at last, my liege; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass. 
Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York; 
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign 
By marriage with an alien — other things 
As idle: a weak Wyatt! Little doubt 
This buzz, will soon be silenced! but the 

Council 
(I have talk'd with some already)are for war. 
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France; 
They show their teeth upon it; and your 

Grace, 

So you will take advice of mine, should stay 

Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event. 

Philip. Good! Renard, I will stay then. 

Renard. Also, sire, 

Might I not say — to please your wife, the 

Queen? 

Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it 

so. \^Ex€unt. 



SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE PAL- 
ACE. 

Mary and Cardinal Pole. 
Lady Clarence a^id Alice in the baek- 
ground. 
Mary. Reginald Pole, what news hath 

plagued thy heart? 
What makes thy favor like the bloodless 

head 
Fall'n on the block, and held up by the 

hair? 
Philip?— 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 

As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. 

Is Calais taken? 

Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to Rome, 
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 
Was ever just, and mild, and fatherlike; 
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth, 
Not only reft me of that legateship 
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship 
Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but worse — 
And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 
And so must you, good cousin; — worse than 

all, 
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear — ■ 
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, 
Before his Inquisition. 

3Iary. I knew it, cousin, 

But held from you all papers sent by Rome, 
That you might rest among us, till the Pope, 
To compass which I wrotemyself to Rome, 
Reversed his doom, and that you might 

not seem 
To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard; 
He cannot dream that / advised the war: 
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself. 
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too; 
So brands me in the stare of Christendom 
A heretic! 
Now, even now, when bow'd before my 

time. 
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out; 
When I should guide the Church in peace 

at home. 
After my twenty years of banishment, 
And all my lifelong labor to uphold 
The primacy — a heretic. Long ago. 
When I was ruler in the patrimony, 
I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 



QUEEN MAKY. 



479 



And I and learned friends among ourselves 

Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms. 

\Vhat then! he knew I was no Lutheran. 

A heretic! 

He drew this shaft against nie to the head, 

When it was thought I might be chosen 
Pope, 

But then withdrew it. In full consistory. 

When I was made archbishop, he ap- 
proved me. 

And how should he have sent me Legate 
hither, 

Deeming me heretic? and what heresy 
since? 

But he was evermore mine enemy, 

And hates the Spaniard — fiery-choleric. 

And drinker of black, strong, volcanic 
wines. 

That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic! 

Your Highness knows that in pursuing 
heresy 

I have gone beyond your late Lord Chan- 
cellor, • — 

He cried "Enough ! enough!" before his 
death, — 

Gone beyond him and mine own natural 
man 

(It was God's cause); so far they call me 
now 

The scourge and butcher of their English 

church. 

Mary. Have courage, your reward is 

heaven itself. 
Pok. They groan amen; they swarm in 
to the fire 

Like flies — for what? IS'o dogma. They 
know nothing; 

They burn for nothing. 

Mary. You have done your best. 

J''ole. Have done my best, and as a faith- 
ful son. 

That all day long hath wrought his father's 
work, 

When back he comes at evening, hath the 
door 

Shut on him by the father whom he loved, 

His early follies cast into his teeth. 

And the poor son turn'd out into the street 

To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, cousin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so disconsolate; 

I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. 

Poor cousin! 

Have I not been the first friend of your life 

Since mine began ? and it was thought we 
two 



Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each 

other 
As man and wife. 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once 
With your huge father ^ he look'd the Great 

Harry, 
You but his cockboat: prettily you did it. 
And innocently. No — we were not made 
One flesh in happiness: no happiness here; 
But now we are made one flesh in misery; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely — Disap- 
pointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart 

myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead men's 

clay. 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us be- 
yond; 
And there is one Death stands behind the 

Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind the 

Bride— 
Mary. Have you been looking at the 

" Dance of Death? " 
Folc. No; but these libellous papers 

which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you here — 

the Pope 
Pointing at me with " Pole, the heretic, 
Thou hast Viurnt others, do thou burn thyself. 
Or I will burn thee; " and this other; see! — 
" We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole." 
This last — I dare not read it her. \Aside. 
Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these? 
I thought you knew me better. I never 

read, 
I tear them; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be burnt 

clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to dtath, 

or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd 

rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me 

these? 
Do you mean to drive me mad? 



4do 



QUEEN MARY. 



Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels tnnible you. Your 

pardon, 
Sweet cousin, and farewell, " O bubble 

world, 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly!" 
Why, who said that? I know not — true 
enough! 
\Puts up the papers, all but the last, 
which falls. Exit Pole. 
Aliee. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking 
one. 
And heard these two, there might be sport 
for him. \_Asidc. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me; even 
while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gallery, 

drawn. 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there be 
loyal papers too, 
And I have often found them. 

Mary. Find me one! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam; but Sir 
Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

Alary. Wherefore should I see him? 

Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may 

bring you news from Philip. 
Mary. So, Clarence. 

Lady Clarence. Let me first put up 

your hair; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Uf an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Ejiter Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Lleath. I bring your Majesty such grievous 
news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. 
ALiry. What traitor spoke? Here, let 
my Cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. 
Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I will 

retire. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chancellor, 

Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Mary. Sir Nicholas? I am stunn'd — 
Nicholas Heath? 
Methought some traitor smote me on the 
head. 



What said you, my good Lord, that our 

brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches? 

Heath. Alas! no; 

That gateway to the mainland over which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred years 
Is France again. 

Mary. So; but it is not lost — 

Not yet. Send out: let England, as of old, 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into 
The prey they are rending from her — ay, 

and rend 
The renders too. Send out I send out! and 

make 
Musters in all the counties; gather all 
From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; 
Let every craft that carries sail and gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken 

yet? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There yet is hope. 

LLeath. Ah, Aladam, but your people are 

so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left among 

us. 
Mary. Send out; I am too weak to stir 

abroad; 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the Par- 
liament: 
Proclaim it to the winds. Tliou art cold 

thyself 
To babble of their coldness. Oh, would I 

were 
My father for an hour! Away now — quick! 
[E.xit Heath. 
I hoped I had served God with all my might! 
It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy 
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt 
V'our shrines, set up your broken images; 
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 
That my l)rief reign in England be defamed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais.. Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy Father 
.A.11 for your sake: what good could come of 

that? 
Lady Clarence. '[^o,ls\a.dz.m, not against 

the Holy P'ather: 
Vou did but help King Philip's war with 

France. 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 
Mary. I am a by word. Heretic and 

rebel 



QUEEN MARY. 



481 



Point at me and make merry. Philip gone! 

And Calais gone! Time that I were gone 

loo! 

Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid gutter 

had a voice 

And cried I was not clean, what should 1 

care? 
Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe, 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 

Mary {seeing ihc paper draft by POLE). 
There, there! another paper! Said you not 
Many of these were loyal? Shall 1 try 
If this be one of such? 

I.ady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me! I have never yet found 

one. \.'lside. 

Mary {reads). " Your people hate you 

as your husband hates you." 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what 

sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of 

God, 
Thou knowest never woman meant so well 
And fared so ill in this disastrous world. 
My people hate me and desire my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Mary. My husband hates me and desires 

my" death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam; these are 

libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire my 

death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your Majesty! 
Shall Alice sing you 
One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child, 
Bring us your lute {h\.\^:v. goes). They say 

the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 

Mary. Too young! 

And never knew a Philip [re-eiiler hLlCE). 

Give vie the lute. 
He hates me! 

{S/te sings.) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! 
Bcautv passes like a breath, and love is lost in 

loathing : 
Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say the 
worlU is nothing — 

Low, lute, low ! 
Love will hover rounj the flowers when they first 

awaken 
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken , 
Low, my lute ! oh, low, my lute ! we fade, and arc 
forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 
Take it away! not low enough for me! 

3' ' 



Alice. Your Grace liaih a low voice. 
Mary. How dare you say it? 

Even lor that he hates me. A low voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear' 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea! 
A low voice irom the dust and from the 

grave {siliing on i/ie ground). 
There, am I low enough now? 

Alice. Good Lord! how grim and ghasU 

ly looks her Giace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to her 

chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside my 

father's, 
And this was open'd, and the dead were 

found 
Sitting, and in this fashion : she looks a 

corpse. 

Enter Lady MAGOAi.iiN Dackes. 



Lady Magdalen. Madan), the Count de 
Eeria waits without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clareine {pointing to Makv). Wait 
he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, 
And may not spcak-for houis. 

Lady Magdalen. Uiihappiest 

Of queens and wives and women. 

Alice {in the foreground '.villi I.ADY 
Magdalen). And all along 
Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud! Our Clar- 
ence there 
Sees ever such an ai.reole round ihe (lueen. 
It gilds the greatest wronger of jjer peace, 
Who stands the nearest to licr. 

Alice. Ay. this Philip: 

I used to love the (^ueen wiili all njy heart — 
God help me, but nielliiiiks I love her less 
Eor such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would 1 were as tall and stiong as you. 
Lady Magiialen. I seem hali-sliamcd at 

limes to be so tail. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in all 
the lierd — 
Beyond his aim: but I am small and scan- 
dalous. 
And love to liear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady iMagdalen. Why? 

I never hearit him utter worse of you 
Than that you wers low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all women's 
Low as his own? 



482 



QUEEN MAKY. 



Lady Magdalen. There you strike in the 

nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman low; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well 

as dull. 
How dared he? 

Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are 

bold' 
Poor lads, they see not what the general 

sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who? Not you? 

Tell, tell me: save my credit with myself. 
Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it to a 

bird in the eaves. 
Would not for all the stars and maiden 

moon 
Our drooping Queen should know! In 

Hanrpton Court 
My window look'd upon the corridor; 
And I was robing; — this poor throat of 

mine. 
Barer than I should wish a man to see it 
When he we speak of drove the window 

back, 

And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand; 
But by God's providence a good stout staff 
Lay near me; and you know me strong of 

arm; 
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due, 
I never found he bore me any spite. 

Alice. I would she could have wedded 

that poor youth, 
My Lord of Devon — light enough, God 

knows. 

And mixt with Wyatt's rising, and the boy 
Not out of him; but neither cold, coarse, 

cruel, 
And, more than all, no Spaniard. 

Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls! what are you whisper- 
ing here? 
Alice. Probing an old state-secret — how 

it chanced 
That this young Earl was sent on foreign 

travel. 
Not lost his head. 

Lady Clarence. There was no proof 

against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam, did not (iardiner 

intercept 



A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote 
To that dead traitor, Wyatt, with full proof 
Of Courtenay's treason? What became of 
that? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that Gardiner, 
out of love for him. 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost 
When W^yatt sack'd the Chancellor's housi 

in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. - Ay, and with him who died 
Alone in Italy. 

L.ady Clarence. Much changed, I hear, 
Had put nff levity and put graveness on. 
The foreign courts report him in his man- 
ner 
Noble as his young person and old shield. 
It might be so — but all is over now; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary {looking tip suddenly). Died in the 

true faith? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 

L.ady Magdalen. It seems her Highness 
hath awaken'd. Think you 
That I might dare to tell her that the 

Count — 
, Alary. I will see no man hence for ever- 
more, 
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, 

my dear lady. 
Mary. W'hat Count? 
Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, 
from his Majesty, 
King Philip. 

Alary. Philip! quick! loop up my 
hair! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make it 

thronelike. 
Arrange my dress — the gorgeous Indian 

shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 

days — 
That covers all. So — am I somewhat queen- 
like, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 
earth? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would 

bide a moment yet. 
Alary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may 
die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at 
once. 



\ 



Q,UEEN MARY. 



483 



EnUr CorcJNT de Feria [kneels). 1 

Feria. I trust your Grace is well. {Aside.) 

How her hand burns! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will better 
me, 
Sir Count, to read the letter which you 
bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How! no letter? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair of 

his. 
Faia. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his 
veriest love, 
And says he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed? 

You, sir, do you remember what you said 
When last you came to England? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations; it was hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy 

state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more; 

You said he would come quickly. I had 

horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and night; 
On all the road from Harwich, night and 

day; 
But the child came not, and the husband 

came not; 
And yet he will come quickly. Thou hast 

learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no 

more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is dead. 
And that I am in state to bring forth death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me! 

Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. 
}{ut shall I take some message from your 
Grace? 
Mary. Tell her to come and close my 
dying eyes, 
.A.nd wear my crown, and dance upon my 
grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace will 
see your sister? 
\'our Grace is too low-spirited. Air and 
sunshine. 



I would we had you. Madam, in our warm 

Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away, 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria {hieels and kisses her hand). I 
wish her Highness better. [Aside.) 
How her hand burns! 

[Exeuni. 

SCENE HI.— A HOUSE NEAR LON- 
DON. 
Elizabeth, Steward ok the House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth. There's half an angel wrong'd 
in your account; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. 
Steward. I were whole devil if I wrong'd 
you. Madam. 

[Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, from the 

King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah! — let him enter. Nay, 
you need not go: [7b //i-r Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We'll have no private conference. W^el- 
come to England! 

Enter FerIA. 
Feria. Fair island star. 
Elizabeth. I shine! What else. Sir Count? 
Feria. As far as France, and into Philip's 
heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 

I am well- served, and am in everything 
Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen. 
Feria. You should be grateful to my mas- 
ter, too; 
He spoke of this: and unto him you owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her, nor him; but 
to the people, 
Who know my right, and love me, as I 

love 
The people! whom God aid! 

Fe^ia. You will be Queen. 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — what? 



484 



QUEEN MARY. 



Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own 
self, not him: 
Your royal sister cannot last; your hand 
Will be much coveted! What a delicate 

one! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — and 

there, 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer 

gold- 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine? 

Troth, some have said so. 

Feria. — would be deemed a miracle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair and 
golden beard, 
There must be ladies many with hair like 
mine. 
Feria. Some few of Gothic blood have 
golden hair, 
But none like yours. 

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it 
Feria. But as to Ph'lip and your Grace, 
consider, 
If such a one as you should match with 

Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and England 

join'd 
Should make the mightiest empire earth has 

known; 
Spain would be England on her seas, and 

England 
Mistress of the Indies. 

Elizabeth. It may chance that England 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet. 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's 
dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps; but we have seamen. 
Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken to you; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly match? 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve 

years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I will 
muse upon it; 
He is my good friend, and I would keep 

him so; 
But — he would have me Catholic of Rome, 
And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's mar- 
riages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a maid. 



But I am much beholden to your King. 

Have you aught else to tell me? 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from the 
Queen 

That she would see your Grace before she — 
died. 
Elizabeth. God's death! and wherefore 
spake you not before? 

We dally with our lazy moments here. 

And hers are number'd. Horses there, with- 
out! 

I am much beholden to the King, your mas- 
ter. 

Why did you keep me prating? Horses, 
there! 

\Exit Elizabeth, etc. 
Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thun- 
derbolt ! 

Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip, 

Then I and he will snaffle your " God's 
death," 

And break your paces in, and make you 
tame; 

God's death, forsooth — you do not know 
King Philip. \Exit. 

SCENE IV.— LONDON. BEFORE THE 
PALACE. 

A light burning withitt. Voices of the ttighl 
passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the Queen's 

chamber? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, and 

make 
Down for their heads to heaven! 

Second. Amen. Come on. 

\^Exeunt. 

Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. I hear 

she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her Legate! 

Gardiner burns 
Already; but to pay them full in kind. 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter: sir, in Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony 
The mother came upon her — a child was 

born — 



QUEEN MARY. 



485 



And, sir, theyhurl'd it back into the fire, 
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe 
Might be in fire forever. Ah, good neigh- 
bor, 
There should be something fierier than fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

tirst. Amen to all 

You wish, and further. 

A Tliird Voice. Deserts! Amen to what? 
Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold 
ring on your finger, and soft raiment about 
your body; and is not the woman up yonder 
sleeping, after all she has done, in peace 
and quietness, en a soft bed, in a closed 
room, with light, fire, physic, tendance? and 
I have seen the true men of Christ lying 
famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling 



Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : what 

hath she written? Read. 
Alice. " I am dying, Philip; come to 

me." 
Lady Magdalen. There — up and down, 

poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses one 

by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd on the 

wall. 
Following her like her sorrow. She turns 

again. 
[Queen sits and sorites, and goes agaiii. 
Lady Clarence. What hath she written 

now ? 
Alice. Nothing; but, "come, come, 

come," and all awry, 



but the cloud that wept on them, not for And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. 



them. 

Lirst. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe 
to preach. 
You had best go home. What are you? 

Third. What am I ? One who cries con- 
tinually with sweat and tears to the Lord 
God that it would please Him out of His 
infinite love to break down all kingship 
and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; 

to cancel and abolish all bonds of human 'And he is with you in a measure still, 
allegiance, all the magistracy, all the no-jl never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
bles, and all the wealthy; and to send us As your great King in armor there, his 
again, according to his promise, the one hand 

King, the Christ, and all things in common,' Upon his helmet. \Pointing to 

as in the day of the first church, when! the portrait of Yy^wav on the wall. 

Christ Jesus was King. Mary. Doth he not look noble? 

First. If ever I heard a madman— let's I had heard of him in battle over seas, 



[Queen returns. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken 
cage, 
And all in vain. \Sitting doivn . 

Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — and Philip 
gone. 
Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip is 
but at the wars; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes again; 



away ! 

Why, you long-winded Sir, you go be- 
yond me. 

I pride myself on being moderate. 

Good-night! Go home. Besides, you curse 
so loud. 

The watch will hear you. Get you home 
at once. \Exeunt. 

SCENE v.— LONDON. A ROOM IN 
THE PALACE. 

A gallery on one side. The fuoonlight 
streaDiing through a range of ivindoios 
on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady 
Clarence, Lady Magdalen Da- 
CREs, Alice. Queen pacing the gal- 
lery. A writing-table in front. Queen 
comes to the table and writes, and goes 
again, pacing the gallery. 



And I would have my warrior all in arms. 

He said it was not courtly to stand hel- 
meted 

Before the Queen. He had his gracious 
moment, 

Altho' you'll not believe me. How he 
smiles. 

As if he loved me yet! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, he could 
not love me. 

It was his father's policy against France. 

I am eleven years older than he. 

Poor boy. [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty- 
seven : \Aside. 

Poor enough in God's grace! 

J\/ary. — And all in van! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the Dan 
phin, 



486 



QUEEN MARY. 



And Charles, the lord of this low world, is 

gone; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past away; 
And in a moment I shall follow him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, see 

your good physician. 
Alary. Drugs — but he knows they cannot 
help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest by-and-by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he 

springs 
And maims himself against the bars, say 

" Rest:" 
"Why, you must kill him if you would have 

him rest — 
Dead or alive, you cannot make him happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has lived 

so pure a life. 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy yet. 
Mary. What is the strange thing happi- 
ness? Sit down here; 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Claretice. I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself a 

little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles, where the black crow 

flies five. 
And doth so bound and babble all the way 
As if itself were happy. It was May-time, 
And I was walking with the man I loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and gather'd 

one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me. 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it. 
And put it in my bosom, and all at once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips — 
Mary. O God! I have been too slack, too 

slack ! 
There are Hot Gospellers even among our 

guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but 

burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and women 

and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck 

wrath — 
We have so play'd the coward; but, by 

God's grace, 



We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up 

The Holy Office here — garner the wheat, 

And burn the tares with unquenchable fire I 

Burn!— 

Fie, what a savor! Tell the cooks to close 

The doors of all the offices below. 

Latimer! 

Sir, we are private with our women here — 

Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow — 

Thou light a torch that never will go out! , 

'Tis out — mine flames. Women, the Holy 

P'ather 
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin 

Pole- 
Was that well done? and poor Pole pines 

of it. 
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, 
I have no power. Ah, weak and meek old 

man, 
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No par- 
don! — 
Why, that was false: there is the right 

hand still! 
Beckons me hence. 

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for trea- 
son. 
Remember that ! 'Twas I and Bonner did it, 
And Pole; we are three to one. Have you 

found mercy there. 
Grant it me here; and sea he smiles and 

goes. 
Gentle as in life. 
Alice. Madam, who goes? King Ph-ilip? 
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, but 

never goes. 
Women, when I am dead. 
Open my heart, and there you will find 

written 
Two names, Philip and Calais; open his — 
So that he have one — 
You will find Philip only, policy, policy — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour true to 

me! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice! 
Adulterous to the very heart of hell. 
Hast thou a knife? 

Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy — 
Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would peril 

mine own soul 
Byslaughter of the body? I could not, girl, 
Not this way — callous with a constant stripe, 
Unwoundable. Thy knife! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed! 

The blade is keen as death, 



QUE EX M.IRY. 



487 



Mary. 



This Philip shall not] School'd by the shadow of death — a Boleyn 1 



Stare in upon me in my haggardness; 

Old, miserable, diseased, 

Incapable of children. Come thou down. 

[ Cuts out the picture and throivs it down. 
Lie there. { Hails.) O God, I have kill'd 
my Philip. 

A/ic-e. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; 
We can replace it. 

Mary. All is well then; rest— 

I will to rest; he said I must have rest. 

\^Cries of " Elizabeth " in the street. 

A. cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt? 
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal sister 

comes to see you. 
Alary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sis- 
ter? 
I will see none except the priest. Your arm. 
\To Lady Clarence. 
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn 

smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles, help me hence. 

\_Exeunt. 

The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth 
and Sir William Cecil. 

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting? Still, 

As if the Chamberlain were Death him- 
self! 

The room she sleeps in — is not this the way? 

No, that way there are voices. Am I too 
late? 

Cecil.... God guide me lest Hose the way. 
[i^xiV Elizabeth. 
Cecil. Many points weather'd, many per- 
ilous ones, 

At last a harbor opens; but therein 

Sunk rocks — they need fine steering — much 
it is 

To be nor mad, nor bigot — have 
mind — 

Not let priests' talk, or dream of worlds to 
be. 

Miscolor things about her — sudden touches 

For him, or him — sunk rocks; no passionate 
faith— 

But — if let be — balance and compromise; 

Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her- 
Tudor 



too. 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so well. 

Enter Alice. 



How is the good Queen now ? 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to her 

mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — and 

once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book 
Against that godless German. Ah, those 

days 
Were happy. It was never merry world 
In England, since the Bible came among us. 
Cecil. And who says that? 
Alice. It is a saying among the Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world in 
England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you dare 
not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! My homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew me, and acknow- 
ledged me her heir, 

Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the 
Faith; 

Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in 
peace. 

I left her lying still and beautiful. 

More beautiful than in life. Why would 
you vex yourself. 

Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart 

To be your Queen. To reign is restless 
fence. 

Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with 
the dead. 

Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt: 

And she loved much: pray God she be for- 
given. 
Cecil. Peace with the dead, who never 
were at peace! 

Yet she loved one so much — I needs must 
say — 

That never English monarch dying left 

England so little. 

Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 

From traitor stabs, we will make England 
great. 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Paget, and other Lords OF the 
Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, ^/r. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen 
of England! 



Bagenhall. God save the Crown: the 

Papacy is no more. 
Paget {aside). Are we so sure of 

that ? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen! 




HAROLD 




TO UTS EXCELLENCY 

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

VICEROY AND GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF INDIA. 



My dear Lord Lytton, — After old-world records — suck as the Bayeux tapestry and 
the Roman de Ron — Edward Freeman'' s History of the Norman Conquest, and your 
father^ s Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me 
in writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his " Harold" to my father^ s brother; 
allow me to dedicate tny " Harold" to yourself . A. TEAWYSON. 

SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. 
A GARDEN here — May breath and bloom |0 Garden blossoming out of English bl«od I 



O strange hate healer Time! We stroll and 

stare 
Where might made right eight hundred 

years ago; 
Might, right? ay good, so all things make 

for good — 
But he and he, if soul be soul, are 

where 



of spring — 
The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 
Crying "with my false egg I overwhelm 
The native nest:" and fancy hears the ring 
Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing. 
And Saxon battle-axe clang on Norman 

helm. 
Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : 
Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slan-'Each stands full lace with all he did 

der'd king. I below. 

DRAMATIS PERSON,-E. 

King Edward the Confessor. 

.Stigand (created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict). 

Aldred (Archbishop of York). 

The Norman Bishop of London. 

Harold, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England, ] 

TOSTIG, Earl of Northumbria, | 

GURTH, Earl of East Anglia, j- Sons of Godwin. 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex, | 

wulfnoth, j 

Count William of Normandy. 

William Rufus. 

William Malet (a Norman Noble).* 

Edwin, Earl of Mercia, ) „ r aic <■ h* , j- 

^. ' T7 1 r TVT ^1- u • e^ T- ^- }• Sons of Alfgat of Mercia. 

MoRCAR, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig, \ ^ 

Gamel (a Northumbrian Thane). 

Guy (Count of Ponthieu). 

Rolf (a Ponthieu Fisherman). 

Hugh Margot (a Norman Monk). 

Osgood and Athelric (Canons from Waltham). 

The Queen (Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin). 

Aldwyth (Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales). 

Edith (Ward of King Edward). 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Wallham. Fishermen, etc. 



• quidam partim Nonnannus et Angina 

Compater Heraldi, — Guy of Amiens, 587 

(490) 



HAROLD 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— LONDON. THE KING'S 
PALACE. 

{A comet seen through the open window. 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking 
together-. 

First Courtier. Lo! there once more 
this is the seventh night! 
Von grimly - glaring, treble - brandish'd 

scourge ■< 

Of England! 

Second Courtier. Horrible! 

First Courtier. Look you, there's a star 

That dances in it as mad with agony! 

Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in hell 

who skips and llies 

To right and left, and cannot scape the 

flame. 

Second Courtier. Steam'd upward from 
the undescendible 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated downward 
from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orni, 

What thinkest thou this means? 

Camel. War, my dear lady! 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady! 

Aldivyth. Stand by me then, and look 
upon my face. 
Not on the comet. 

Enter MORCAR. 

Brother, why so pale? 
Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares 
upon the Thames, 
The people are as thick as bees below, 
They hum like bees, — they cannot speak — 

for awe; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. 



I think that they would Molochize them 

too. 
To have the heavens clear. 

Aldwyth. They fright not me. 

Enter Leofwin, after him GuRTH. 

Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of 
this! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe 
that these 
Three rods of blood -red fire up yonder 

mean 
The doom of England and the wrath ql 
Heaven? 
Bishop of London (passing). Did ye not 
cast with bestial violence ~ 
Our holy Norman bishops down from all 
Their thrones in England? I alone remain. 
Why should not heaven be wroth? 

Leofwin. With us, or thee? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw 
your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh murder him 

too? 
Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven? 
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of Heaven 
hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

[^Exit Bishop of London. 

Enter ARCHBISHOP Stigand. 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of Heav- 
en. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the face 
of heaven. 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better for 
it. 
Leofwin {laughing). He can but read the 

King's face on his coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there the 
King's face is power. 

(491) 



492 



HAROLD. 



Gurth. O father, mock not at a public 
fear, 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven 
A harm to England? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward! 

And he may tell thee, /am a harm to Eng- 
land. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
"Who had my pallium from an Antipope! 
Not he the man — for in our windy world 
What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake his 

chair. 
I have a Norman fever on me, son. 
And cannot answer sanely .... What it 

means? 
Ask our broad Earl. 

\Pointing to Harold, -who enters. 
Harold {seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel, son 
of Orm! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life 

at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look! am I not 
Work- wan, flesh-fallen? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl? 

Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow for a 
voyage, 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound 
Beyond the seas — a change! When camest 
thou hither? 
Gamel. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel? 

Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy 
brother breaks us 
With over-taxing— quiet, ay, as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old friend, 
Thou art a great voice in Northumberland! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will heai 

thee. 
He is passionate, but honest. Stand thou 

by him ! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird 

sign 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, fathei 
Stigand — 

[7o Stigand, who advances to him. 
Stigand {Jiointing to the comet). War there, 
my son? Is that the doom of Eng- 
land? 
Harold. Why not the doom of all the 
world as well? 
For all the world sees it as well as England. 



These meteors came and went before our 

day. 

Not harming any: it threatens us no more 
Than French or Norman. War? the worst 

that follows 
Things that seem jerk'd out of the common 

rut I 

Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's 

credit 
Makes it on earth: but look, where Edward 

draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig much of 

late. 
Leofivin. And he hath learnt, despite the 

tiger in him. 
To sleek and supple himself to the King's 

hand. 
Gttrth. I trust the kingly touch that cures 

the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of him. 
Leofwin. He hath as much of cat as tiger 

in him. 
Our Tostig leves the hand, and not the man. 
Harold. Nay! Better die than lie! 

Enter King, Queen a7id Tostig. 

Ed-ward. In heaven signs! 

Signs upon earth! signs everywhere! your 

Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd! 
They scarce can read their Psalter: and 

your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Norman- 
land 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this as being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor, as some have 

held. 
Because I love the Norman better — no, 
But dreading God's revenge upon this realm 
For narrowness and coldness; and I say it 
For the last time perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshments of the Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity: 
I have builded the great church of Holy 

Peter: 
I have wrought miracles — to God the 

glory— 
And miracles will in my name be wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight and gc — , 
I see the flashing of the gates of pcail — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I am gone 



HAROLD. 



493 



Woe, woe to England! I have had a vision; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus 
Have tuin'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most d^ar Master, 

What matters? Let them turn from Isft to 

right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy King! 

A life of prayer and fasting well may see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwyth (aside). Sees he into thine, 

That thou wouldst have his promise for the 

crown? 

Edward. Tostig says true: my son, thou 

art too hard, 

Not stagger'd by this ominous earth and 

heaven: 
But heaven and earth are threads of the same 

loom, 
Play into one anotlier, and weave the web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not. 

For I have served thee long and honestly. 
Edward. I know it, son; lamnotthank- 
less: thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for me 
The weight of this poor crown, and left me 

time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better one. 
Twelve years of service! England loves 

thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her! 

Aldwyth {aside). So, not Tostig! 

Harold. And after those twelve years a 
boon, my King, 
Respite, a holiday: thyself wast wont 
To love the chase: thy leave lo set my feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk beyond the 
seas! 
Edward. What, with this flaming horror 

overhead? 
Harold. Well, when it passes then. 
Edward. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Normandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my King, 
to Normandy? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring him 
home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son : some other 

messenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, to 
Normandv? 



Is not the Norman Count thy friend and 
mine? 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove the 
Normans out 
Of England? — That was many a summer 

gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not yield thee 

leave to go. 
Harold. Why then to Flanders. I will 
hawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods and 
fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful. Go — the 

Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out 
And homeward. Tostig, I am faint again. 
Son Harold, I will in and pray for thee. 

\Exit, leatmtgon Tostig, and fol- 
lowed Oy Stigand, Morcar, and 
Courtiers. 

Harold. What lies upon the mind of our 
good King, 
That he should harp this way on Normandy? 
Queen. Brother, the King is wiser than 
he seems; 
And Tostig knows it : Tostig loves the King. 
Harold. And love should know; and, be 
the King so wise. 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. 
I love the man, but not his phantasies. 

Re enter TosTiG. 
Well, brother. 

When didst thou hear from thy Northum- 
bria? 
lostig. When did I hear aught but this 
" When " from tliee? 
Leave me alone, brother, with my Nor- 

thumbria: 
She is my mistress, let me look to her! 
The King hath made me Earl; make me net 

fool! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made me 
Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make myself 
a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, make 
thee Earl. 
lostig. Why chafe me then? Thou 
knowest I soon go wild. 



494 



HAROLD. 



Gurth. Come, come! as yet thou art not 

gone so wild 

But thou canst hear the best and wisest of us. 

Harold. So says old Gurth, not I: yet 

hear! thine earldom, 

Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their old 

crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun set, 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar's house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this ghastly 

glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tosiig. My most worthy brother, 

That art the quietest man in all the world — 
Ay, ay, and wise in peace and great in war — 
Pray God the people choose thee for their 

king! 
But all the powers of the house of Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no! 

But thou hast drain'd them shallow by thy 

tolls. 
And thou art ever here about the King: 
Thine absence well may seem a want of 

care. 
Cling to their love; for, now the sons of 

Godwin 
Sit topmost in the fields of England, envy. 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good 

brother. 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly! 

I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy Nor- 
thumbria? Well? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it went 

aught else than well? 
Harold. I would it went as well as with 
mine earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth's. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. W^e have made them milder by 

just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your 

own good word. 
Leofivin. An honest gift, by all the 
Saints, if giver 
And taker be but honest! but they bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy my 
nakedness 
In my poor North ! 



Harold. There is a movement there, 

A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once. 

With all the'power I have ! — I must — I will ! 
Crush it half-born! Fool still? or wisdom 

there. 
My wise head-shaking Harold? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom, when 

in power 
And wisest, should not frown as Power, but 

smile 

As kindness, watching all, till the true mus^ 
Shall make her strike as Power: but when 

to strike — 

Tostig, O dear brother — if they prance. 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and 

run 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again! 

Good counsel, tho' scarce needed. Pour 

not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leofioin. Nor thou be a wild thing 

Out of the waste, to turn and bite the hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

Leofioin. To the deaf adder thee, that wilt 
not dance. 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more! 

Gurth. I likewise cry " no more." Un- 
wholesome talk 
For Godwin's house! Leofwin, thou hast a 

tongue! 
Tostig, thou lookst as thou wouldst spring 

upon him. 
Saint Olaf, not while I am by! Come, come. 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our shield- 
wall. 
Who breaks us then ? I say thou hast a tongue. 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 

1 have to make r^ort of my good earl- 

dom 
To the good King who gave it — not to you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The King? the King is ever at 

his prayers; 
In all that handles matter of the State 
I am the King. 



HAROLD. 



495 



Tostig. That shalt thou never be 

If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brother, brother! 

Tostig. Away! [£^1/ Tostig. 

Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye three 
must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leof-win. Tostig, sister, galls himself. 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all the stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated him. 
Why — how they fought when boys — and, 

Holy Mary! 
How Harold used to beat him! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had much 

ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. Old 

Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave cause; 

but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a noth- 
ing— 
The boy would fist me hard, and when we 

fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none the less. 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, and tell 

him 
That where he was but worsted, he was 

vvrong'd. 
Ah! thou hast taught the King to spoil him 

too; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take 

heed, take heed; 
Thou art the Queen; ye are boy and girl no 

more: 
Side not with Tostig in any violence, 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the violence. 
Queen. Come, fall not foul on me. I leave 

thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 

\^Exeiint Queen, Harold, Gurth, 
and Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gam»l, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means? 

[^Poinling to the comet. 

Gamel. War, my dear lady, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malignities. 

Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tostig 

from his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a matter for 
a comet I 



Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the 

house of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small! a comet would not 

show for that! 
Aldwyth. Not small for the<e, if thou 

canst compass it. 
Gajnel. Thy love? 

Aldviyth. As much as I can give thee, 
man; 
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant: 
Stir up thy people: oust him! 

Gamel. And thy love? 

Ald^uyih. As much as thou canst bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all. 

And not be giddy. 

Aldwyth. No more now: to-morrow. 



SCENE II.— IN THE GARDEN. THE 
KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 

SUNSET. 

Edith. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate 

nightingale. . . . 
I love thee for it — ay, but stay a moment; 
He can but stay a moment: he is going. 
I fain would hear him coming!. .. .near 

me. . . .near, 
Somewhere — to draw him nearer with a 

charm 
Like thine to thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love is come with a song and a smile, 
Welcome Love with a smile and a song: 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Why cannot he stay? They call him away: 
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong; 
Love will stay for a whole life-long. 

Enter Harold. 
Harold. The nightingales at Havering- 
in-the-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's 

prayers 
Were deafen'd, and he pray'd them dumb, 

and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale! 
[Kissing her, 
Edith. Thou art my music! Would their 
wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders! Must thou go? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is but 
for one moon. 



496 



HAROLD. 



Edith. Leaving so many foes in Edward's 
hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd on 

thee, 
She stammer'd in her hate; I am sure she 

hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her cause — 
I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised 
The convent and lone life — within the pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held with 

Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 
That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — 'Cn\\%{s7iaps his fingers'). 

And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E! 
Take thou this ring; I will demand his 

ward 
From Edward when I come again. Ay, 

would she? 
She to shut up my blossom in the dark! 
Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine arms. 
Edith (taking tlu ring). Yea, but Earl 

Tostig — 
Harold. That's a truer fear! 

For if the North take fire, 1 should be back; 
I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and went — 
Harold. A gnat that vext thy pillow! 
Had I been by 
I would have spoil'd his horn. My girl, 
what was it? 
Edith. Oh that thou wert not going! 
For so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 
And while we stood together, a dead man 
Rose from behind the altar, tore away 
My marriage-ring, and rent my bridal-veil: 
And then 1 turn'd, and saw the church all 

fill'd 
With dead men upright from their graves, 

and all 
The dead men made at thee to murder thee. 
But thou didst back thyself against a pillar. 
And strike among them with thy l)attle-axe — 
There, what a dream! 



Harold. Well, well — a dream — nn more! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to men in 

dreams of old? 
Harold. Ay— well— of old. I tell thee 
what, my child; 
Thou hast misread this merry dream of 

thine. 
Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 
For smooth stone columns of the sanctuary, 
The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer 
For dead men's ghosts. True, that the 

battle-axe 
Was out of place; it should have been the 

bow. — 
Come, thou shalt dream no more such 

dreams: I swear it. 
By mine own eyes — and these two sapphires 

— these 
Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 
The kisses of all kind of womankind 
In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back 
To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That wowld but shame me, 

Rather than make me vain. The sea may 

roll 
Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living 

rock 
Which guards the land. 

Harold. Except it be a soft one, 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine amu- 
let. .. . 
This last. . . .upon thine eyelids, to shut in 
A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou 

shalt see 
My greyhounds fleeting like a beam of light. 
And hear my peregrine and her bells in 

heaven; 
And other bells on earth, which yet are 

heaven's; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 
Farewell, my King. 

Harold. Not yet, but then — my queen. 

\_Exeiint. 

Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. 

Aldwyth. The k^ss that charms thine 

eyelids into sleep 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him? I 

could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child can do; 
Griffyth I hated: why not hate the foe 
Of England? Griffyth, when I saw him flee. 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the 

blood 



HAROLD. 



497 



That should have only pulsed for Giifiyth, 

beat 
For his pursuer. I love him or think I love 

him. 
If he were king of England, I his queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him — 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest the King 
.Should yield his ward to Harold's will. What 

harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play 
The craftier Tostig with him? fawn upon 

him? 
Chime in with all? "O thou more saint 

than king!" 
And that were true enough. " O blessed 

relics!" 
" O Holy Peter!" If he found me thus, 
Harold might hate me; he is broad and 

honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness. ...not like Ald- 

wyth.... 
For which I strangely love him. Should not 

England 
Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar 
By such a marrying? Courage, noble Ald- 
wyth ! 
Let all thy people bless thee! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl: he would be 

king:— 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the 

bone. — 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom 
I play upon, that he may piay the note 
Whereat the dog shall howl and run. and 

Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with him. 
Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 
C)f England's wholeness — so — to shake th( 

North 
With earthquake and disruption — some di 

vision — 
Then fling mine own fair person in th( 

gap 



A sacritice lo Harold, a peace-offering, 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins of both 
The houses on mine head — then a fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 
Morcar {coming j'rovi the thicket.^ 

Alt thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith? 

Aldwyth . Morcar ! 

Why creepest thou like a timorous beast of 

prey 
Out of the bush by night? 

AIo7-car. I follow'd thee. 

Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I will 

make thee Earl. 
Morcar. What lead then? 
Aldwyth. Thou shall flash it secretly 

Among the good Northumbrian folk, that 

I— 
That Harold loves me- — yea, and presently 
That I and Hareld are betroth'd — and 
1 last — 

Perchance that Harold wrongs me; tho' I 

would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar . I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldwyth. I said "secretly;" 

It is the flash that murders, the poor thunder 
Never harm'd head. 

Morcar. But thunder may bring down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldwyth. Down with Tostig! 

The first of all. — And when doth Harold 
go? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bosham, 

ihen to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till Tostig 
shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood the 

teeth 
That shall be broken by us^yea, and 

thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and 

dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. \Exit Aldwyth. 

Morcar. Earl first, and after that 

Who knows I may not dream myself their 
king. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— SEASHORE. PONTHIEU. 
NIGHT. 

Harold and his Men '<vrcckcd. 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhospitaljle 
plunge 
Our boat hath burst her ribs; but ours are 

whole; 
I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and clinging 

thus 
Felt the remorseless outdraught of the deep 
Haul like a great strong fellow at my legs, 
And then I rose and ran. The blast that 

came 
.So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 
Put thou the comet and this blast together — 
Hai'old. Put thou thyself and mother-wit 
together. 
Be not a fool! 

Enter Fishermen luith torches, Harold 
going up to one of them, ROLF. 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the wisp! 
Wolf of the shore! dog, with thy lying 

lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of 
thine! 
Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the 
black herring-pond behind thee. We be 
fishermen; I came to see after my nets. 
Harold. To drag us into them. Fisher- 
men? devils! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your false 

fires, 
Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. 
Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the blessed 
Apostles; they were fishers of men. Father 
Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish had 
swallowed me. 
Like Jonah, than have known there were 

such devils. 
What's to be done? 

[ I'o his Men — goes apart zvith them. 
Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swallow 
Jonah? 

Rolf. A whale! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk we 
have swallowed the King of England. I 

1498) 



saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, when 
I was down in the fever, 5/;^' was down with 
the hunger, and thou didst stand by her and 
give her thy crabs, and set her up again, 
till now, by the patient Saints, she's as 
crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf. And I'll give her my crabs again, 
when thou art down again. 

fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou 
to Count Guy; he is hard at hand. Tell 
him what hath crept into our creel, and he 
will fee thee as freely as he will wrench 
this outlander's ransom out of him — and 
why not? for what right had he to get him- 
self wrecked on another man's land? 

Rolf. Thou art the humanheartedest, 
Christian-charitiest of all crab-catchers ! 
.Share and share alike! \Exit. 

Plarold {Jo Fisherman). Fellow, dost 
thou catch crabs? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a wind, 
and less than I would in a calm. Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou shalt 
catch no more. 

Fisherman. How? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee with 
mine axe. 

Fishermati. Ay, do, do, and our great 
Count-crab will make his nippers meet in 
thine heart; he'll sweat it out of thee, he'll 
sweat it out of thee. Look, he's here! 
He'll speak for himself! Mold thine own, 
if thou canst! 

Enter Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu! 

Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex! 

Harold. Thy villains with their lying 
lights have wreck'd us! 

Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex? 

Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush. 
And leave them for a year, and coming 

back 
Find them again. 

Guy. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 

In Wessex — if I caught them, they should 
hang 



HAROLD. 



499 



Cliflf-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew 
Winging their only wail! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of 

God:— 
What hinders me to hold with mine own 

men ? 
HaroiJ. The Christian manhood of the 

man who reigns! 
Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our 

oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him 

hence! \To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William; tell him we have 

Harold. 

SCENE II.— BAYEUX. PALACE. 
Count William luid William Malet. 

William. We hold our Saxon woodcock 

in the springe. 
But he begins to flutter. As I think, 
He was thine host in England when I went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord-, 

To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
IVilliatn. Thou art his friend: thou 

know'st my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise: we have him in 

the toils. 
And it were well if thou shouldst let him 

feel 
How dense a fold of danger nets him round, 
So that he bristle himself against my will. 
Alalet. What would 1 do, my lord, if I 

were you? 
William. What wouldst thou do? 
Malet. My Ibrd, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendor of God, 

no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the 

fate 
Which hunted him when that un-Saxon 

blast. 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave and 

crack 'c 
His boat on Ponthieu beach; where our 

friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by the 

rack, 



But that I slept between and purchased him, 

Translating his captivity from Guy 

To mine own heaiili at Bayeux, where he 

sits 
My ransoni'o prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not willi gold. 

With golden deeds and iron strokes that 

brought 
Thy war witii Biiltany to a goodlier close 
Than eise had been, lie paid his ransojn 

back. 
William. So that henceforth they are not 

like to league 
With Harold against me. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

lie from the liipiid sands of Coesnon 
Haled lliy shore-swallow'd, arnior'd Nor- 
mans up 
To fight for tiiee again! 

IVilliam. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him from him- 
self. 
Malet. But I should let him home again, 

my lord. 
IVilliam. Simple! let fly the bird within 

the hand. 
To catch the bird again within the bush! 
No. 
Smooth thou my way, before he clash with 

me; 
I want his voice in England for the crown. 
I want thy voice with him to bring him 

round; 
And being brave he must be subtly cow'd. 
And being truthful wrought upon to swear 
Vows that he dare not break. England 

our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my dear 

friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself shall have 
Large lordship there of lands and territory. 
Malet. I knew thy purpose; he and 

W"ulfnolli never 
Have met, except in public; shall they meet 
In private? I have often lalk'd with Wulf- 

noih, 
And stuffed the boy with fears that these 

may ac: 
On Harold when they meet. 

U illiam. Then let them meet! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, honest 

Haroid. 
William. Love him! why not? thine is 

a loving office. 
I have commission'd thee to save the man: 



5oo 



HAROLD. 



Help the good ship, showing the sunken 

rock, 
Or he is wreckt for ever. 

Enter William Rufus. 



William Riifiis. Father. 

William. Well, boy 

William Rufiis. They have taken away 
the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy? 

William Rufus. Because I broke 

The horse's leg — it was mine own to break; 

I like to have my toys, and break them too. 

William. Well, thou shalt have another 

Norman knight! 
William Rufiis. And may I break his 

legs? 
William. Yea,— get thee gone ! 

William Rufus. I'll tell them I have had 
my way with thee. \^Exit. 

Malet. I never knew thee check thy will 
for aught 
Save for the prattling of thy little ones. 
William. Who shall be kings of Eng 
land. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her King. 
Malet. But there the great Assembly 
choose their King, 
The choice of England is the voice of Eng- 
land. 
William.. I will be King of England by 
the laws. 
The choice, and voice of England. 

Malet. ■ Can that be? 

William. The voice of any people is 
the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that beats 

them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will be 

. . . .kinglike.'. . . 
Tho' scarce at ease; for, save our meshes 

break, 
More king-like he than like to prove a king. 

Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes on 
the ground. 

He sees me not— and yet he dreams of me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd against 

the wind. 
Harold {looking up suddenly, having 

caught but the last word.) WJiich 

way does it blow? 



William. Blowing for England, ha? 

Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quar- 
ters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among these 
towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, thou 
hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd, and entertain'd us royally! 
William. And thou for us hast fought as 
loyally. 
Which binds us friendship-fast for ever! 

Harold. Good! 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home 

with us. 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay— as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can 

strike. 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce touch'd 

or tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 

Harold. I am in no mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
[Crossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two, 

And we will fill thee full of Norman sun. 
And send thee back among thine island 

mists 
With laughter. 

Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 

had rather 
Breathe tlie free wind from off our Saxon 

downs, 
Tho' charged with all the wet of all the 
west. 
William. W' hy, if thou wilt, so let it ba 
— thou shalt. 
That were a gracele.ss hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet- 
board; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to Har. 

fleur. 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf 
For happier homeward winds thai* that, 

which crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu,— yet, to us, iv, 

faith, . 
A happy one, — whereby we came to know 
Thy valor and thy value, noble eark 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for'thee. 
Provided — I will go with thee to-morrow- 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy ones. 
So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. 



HAROLD. 



5"I 



Enter Fage. 
Page. My lord, there is a post from over the 
seas 
With news for thee. [Ax// Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear! 

{Exeunt CouNT William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions? What conditions? 
pay him back 
His ransom? '-'easy" — that were easy— nay- 
No money-lover he! What said the King? 
" I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
liavel not fought it out? What did he mean? 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in his 

eyes. 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls op 

press me. 
And yon huge keep that hinders half the 

heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

\J^Ioves logo out. A Man-at-arms/t7//<77cj him 
' Harold (to the Man-at-arms). I need thee 
nut. Why dost thou follow me? 
Man-at-arms. I have the Count's com 

mands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then? Am I in danger in 

this court? 
Alan-at-arms . I cannot tell. I have the 

Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, and 
keep me still 
In eyeshot. 

Man-at-ar7iis. Yea, lord Harold. 

[ l\ ithdraxvs. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber door, 

And if I walk within the lonely wood, 

There is an arm'd man ever glides behind I 

Enter Malet. 

Why am I foUow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd? 
See yonder! {Pointing to the Man-at-arms. 
Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not,nor thou the Nor- 
mans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind, 

Which way soever the vane-arrow swing, 
Not ever fair for England? Why but now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I must not 

hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 



Harold. Malet, thy mother was an Eng- 
lishwoman; 
There somewhere beats an English pulse 
in thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's sake I love 
your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 

Harold. Speak for thy mother's sake, 

and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my mother's sake, and 
England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of thee. 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honorable! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether thou 
wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 

England 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 

Harold. News from England? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have stirr'd 

up the Thanes 

Against thy brother Tostig's governance; 

And all the North of Humber is one storm. 

Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall on 
suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was his 

guest, 
Camel, the son of Orm: and there be more 
As villainously slain. 

Harold. The wolf! the beast I 

111 news for guests, ha, Malet! More? 

What more? 
What do they say? did Edward know of 
this? 
Malet. They say, his wife was knowing 

and abetting. 
Harold. They say, his wife I — To marry 
and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I should 

be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 
• Malet. Thou canst not, Harold; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the sea, 
(3ur Duke is all about thee like a God; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak him 

fair, 
P'or he is only debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark as death 



502 



HAROLD. 



To those that cross him. — Look thou, here 
is Wulfnoth! 

I leave thee to thy talk with him alone; 

How wan, poor lad! how sick and sad for 
home! [j^^xzV Malet. 

Harold (7nuttering). Go not to Norman- 
dy — go not to Normandy! 

Enter Wulfnoth. 

Poor brother! still a hostage! 

JVtil/noth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more 
Make blush the maiden -white of our tall 

cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and 

hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — save indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded 

Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will; 

But on .conditions. Canst thou guess at 

them? 

Wul/noih. Draw nearer, — I was in the 

corridor; 

I saw him coming with his brother Odo 

The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 

Harold. They did thee wrong who made 

thee hostage; thou 

Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And he spoke — I heard him — 
" This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown," and Odo 

said, 
" Thine is the right, for thine the might; 

he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep." 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. 

IVulptotk. And William laugh'd and 

swore that might was right. 

Far as he knew in this poor world of ours — 

" Marry, the Saints must go along with us. 

And, brother, we will find a way," said 

he- 
Yea, yea, he would be King of England. 
Harold. Never! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this 

way answer hun. 
Harold. Is it not better still to speak the 

truth? 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never 
hence nor I; 
For in the racing towards this golden goal 
He turns not right nor left, but tramples flat 



Whatever thwarts him; hast thou never 

heard 
His savagery at Alencon, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, and 

cried 
" Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That had anger'd me 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prisoners. 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands 

away. 
And flung them screaming o'er the battle- 
ments 
Upon the heads of those who walked with- 
in — 
Oh, speak him fair, Harold, for thine own 
sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, " The 
Truth against the World," 
Much more the truth against myself. 

Wulfnoth. Thyself? 

But for my sake, O brother! oh! for my 
sake! 
Harold. Poor Wulfnoth! do they not en- 
treat thee well? 
Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my 
dungeon loom 
Across their lamps of revel, and beyond 
The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank 
The shackles that will bind me to the wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still ! 
Wulfnoth. Oh no, no — speak him fair! 
Call it to temporize, and not to lie; 
Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 
The man that hath to foil a murderous aim 
May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I lie. 
Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith? 
Harold. There thou prick'st me deep. 
Wulfnoth. And for our Mother England? 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Wulfnoth. And deeper still the deep- 
down oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling day — 
In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon thy 

head. 
And over thee the suns arise and set. 
And the lark sings, the sweet stars come 

and go. 
And meji are at their markets, in their fields. 
And woo their loves and have forgotten 

thee; 
And thou art upright in thy living grave. 
Where there is barely room to shift thy side, 



HAROLD. 



503 



And all thine England hath forgotten thee; 
And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 
With all his Normans round him once 

" again, 
Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten 
thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, and so 
methinks, my boy, 
Thy fears infect me beyond reason. Peace! 
VVulfnoth. And then our fiery Tostig, 
while thy hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians rise 
And hurl him from them — I have heard the 

Normans 
Count upon this confusion — may he not 

make 
A league with William, so to bring him 
back? 
Harold. That lies within the shadow of 

the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood thro' 
a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our good 

King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our 

helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own 
blood — 
Harold. W^ailing! not warring? Boy, 
thou hast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

Wulfnoth. Then our modest women — 
I know the Norman license — thine own 
Edith— 
Harold. No more! I will not hear thee — 

William comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen in talk 
with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake with 
thee. 
\_Moves away to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malet, and Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that rail'd 

against thy birth. 
Willican. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

\^Exit Officer. 
William. Look not amazed, fair earl! 
Better leave undone 



Than do by halves — tongueless and eyeless, 
prison'd — 
Harold. Better methinks have slain the 

man at once! 
William. We have respect for man's im- 
mortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in war; 
It frights the traitor more to maim and blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should have 
scorn'd the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him go. 
William. And let him go? To slander 
thee again! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred — 

ay, 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 

Harold. They lied. 

llilliam. But thou and he — whom at thy 
word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 

By oath and compurgation from the charge. 
The King, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove our 
good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in us yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert! Robert the 
Archbishop! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 

Malet. Quiet! quiet! 

Harold. Count! if there sat within thy 
Norman chair 
A ruler all for England — one who fill'd 
All offices, all bishopricks with English — 
We could not move from Dover to ,the 

H umber 
Saving thro' Norman bishopricks — I say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who should 

drive 
The stranger to the fiends! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman lords 
Hate thee for this, and press upon me — 

saying 
God and the sea have given thee to our 

hands — 
To plunge thee into life-long prison here: — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may. 
Yea, would hold out, yea, tho' they should 
revolt — 



504 



HAROLD. 



Far thou hast done the battle in my cause; 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly "bound to thee. . . . 

if this be so. 
miliam. And I would bind thee more, 
and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will 

We hear he hath not long to live. 

Harold. It may be 

William. Why, then, the heir of England, 

who is he? 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the 

throne 
William. But sickly, slight, half-witted and 
a child, 
Will England have him King? 

Harj)ld. It may be, no 

William. And hath King Edward not pro- 
nounced his heir? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in Normandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we found 

him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure and 
saintly man! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded him, 
He promised that if ever he were King 
In England, he would give his kingly voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest thou this? 
Harold. I learn it now 
William. Thou knowest I am his cousin. 
And that my wife descends from Alfred? 
Harold. Ay 

IVilliam. Who hath abetter claim then to 
the crown 
So that ye will not crown the Atheling? 
Harold. None that I know. . . .if that but 
hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

William. WMU thou uphold my claim 



Harold. Ay .... if the Witan will consent 

to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest voice in 
England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the W^itan — shall I have 
it? 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh, Harold! 

if thou love thine Edith, ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
iMalet [aside to Harold) . Thine " ifs " will 

sear thine eyes out — ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help me 
to the crown? 
And I will make thee my great Earl of 

Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Normandy; 
Thou shalt be verily King — all but the 

name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Normandy; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. 
Speak. 
Will/not A [aside to Harold). Ay, brother 

— for the sake of England — ay. 
Harold. My lord — 

A/alet [aside to Harold). Take heed now. 

Harold. Ay. 

Hilliam. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word thy 

bond. 

To-morrow will we ride with thee to Har- 

fleur. \^E.vit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, one life 

with thee. 

And even as I should bless thee saving 

mine, 
I thank thee now for having saved thyself. 
\Exit Malet. 
Harold. For having lost myself to save 
myself, 
Said " ay " when I meant " no," lied like 

a lad 
That dreads the pendant scourge, said " ay " 
for " no!" 
Ay! no! — he hath not bound me by an 
oath — 



Mulct [aside to Harold). Be carefulofthinejis " ay " an oath? is "ay" strong as an 
answer, my good friend. 

Wulfnoth [aside to Harola). Oh, Harold! 
for my sake and for thine own! 

Harold. Ay. . . if the King have not re- 
voked his promise. 

William. But hath he done it then? 

Harold. Not that I know. 

William. Good, good, and thou wilt help 
me lu liie crown. 



oath? 

Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath? He call'd my word 

my bond! 
He is a liar who knows I am a liar,' 
And makes believe that he believes my 

word — 
The crime be on his head — not bounden — 

no. 



JIAROLD. 



505 



\ Suddenly doors are Jiang open, discover- 
ing in an inner //«// Count William 
in his state robes, seated upon his 
throne, between two Bishops, Odo 
Ol'" Bayeux being one: in the centre 
of the hall an arh covered with cloth 
of gold ; and on either side of it the 
Norman barons. 

Enter a Jailer before William's throne. 

lVilliat?t {to Jailer'). Knave, hast thou let 

thy prisoner escape? 
Jailer. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have hopt 

away, 

Yea, some familiar spirit must have help'd 
him. 

William. Woe, knave, to thy familiar 

and to thee! 

Give me thy keys. [They fail clashing. 

Nay, let them lie. Stand there and wait 

my will. \_The ]!i\\cr stands aside. 

ll'illiam [to Harold). Hast thou such 

trustless jailers in thy North? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in mine 
earldom there. 
So less chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal governance; 
Honor to thee! thou art perfect in all 

honor! 

Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
Foi they will not believe thee^ — as I believe 
\Descends from his throne and stands 
by the ark.\ 
Let all men here bear witness of our bond ! 
\Beckons to liAROLD who advances 
Enter jSIalet behind him. 
»Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall! 
Behold thejewel of Saint Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this! 
Harold. What should I swear? Why 

should I swear on this? 
William [savagely). Swear thou to help 

me to the crown of England. 
Malet [whispering Harold\. My friend, 
thou hast gone too far to palter now. 
Wttlfnoth [whispering Harold). Swear 
thou to-day; to-morrow is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England. . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 

IVillia/n. Thou must swear absolutely, 
noble Earl. 



Malet [zuhispering). Delay is death to 

thee, rum to England. 
Wulfnoth [whispering). Swear, dearest 

brother, I beseech thee, swear! 
Harold [putting his hand on the jcivel). 
I swear to help thee to the crown of 
England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl; I did 
not doubt thy word. 
But that my barons might believe thy word, 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy, 
When thou art home in England with thine 

own, 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy 

word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by whom 
he hath sworn. 

[77/^ /wf Bishops advance, and raise 
the cloth of gold. The bodies and 
bones of Saints are seen lying iti the 
ark. 

The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Normandy! 
Harold. Horrible! 

[ 'I hey let the cloth fall again. 

Ifilliam. Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath 

Which, if not kept, would make the hard 

earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky 

cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague 
Thro' all^ your cities, blast your infants, 

dash 
The torch of war among your standing 

corn, 
Dabble your hearts with your own blood. — 

Enough! 
Thou wilt not break it! I, the Count — the 

King— 
Thy friend- — am grateful for thine honest 

oath. 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now. 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your laws. 
And make your ever -jarring Earldoms 

move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a 

throne 
Out-towering hers of France. . . .The wind 

is fair 
For England now. . . .To-night we will be 

merry. 



5o6 



HAROLD. 



To-morrow will I ride with thee to Har- 
fleur. 
{^Exettnt William and all the Nor- 
man barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry — and 
to-morrow — 

Juggler and bastaid — bastard — he hates 
that most — 

William the tanner's bastard! Would he 
heard me! , 

O God, that I were in some wide, waste 
field 

With nothing but my battle-axe and him 

To spatter his brains! Why let earth rive, 
gulf in 

These cursed Normans — yea, and mine own 
self. 

Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I 
may say 

Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with Wil- 
liam, 

Ye are not noble." How their pointed fingers 

Glared at me! Am I a Harold, Harold son 

Of our great Godwin? Lo! I touch mine 
arms. 



My limbs — they are not mine— they are a 

liar's — i 

I mean to be a liar — I am not bound — I 

Stigand shall give me absolution for it — 
Did the chest move? did it move? I am 

utter craven! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast 

betray'dme! 
Wtilfiiotli. Forgive me, brother, I will 

live here and die. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits thee at 

the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's flesh, 

and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord — 
Harold. I know your Norman cookery 

is so spiced. 
It masks all this. 

Page. My lord, thou art white as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. Am 

I so white? 
The Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I 

follow. \Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— THE KING'S PALACE. 
LONDON. 

King Edward dying on a couch, and by 
him standing the Qv-K^n, HAROLD, ARCH- 
BISHOP Stigand, Gurth, Leofwin, 
Archbishop Aldred, Aldwyth, ana 
Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there? If 

this be death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown thee 

King- 
Come hither, I have a power; 

[To Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a tree, 
I have a power! 

See here this little key about my neck! 
There lies a treasure buried down in Ely: 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for thee, 
Ask me for this at thy most need, son 

Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 



.Stigand. Red gold — a hundred purses — 

yea, and more! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do believe 
My old crook' d spine would bud out two 

young wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father! 

Thou art English; Edward too is English 

now. 
He hath clean repented of his Normanism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents who 

cannot 
Make done undone, when thro' his dying 

sense 
Shrills " lost thro' thee." They have built 

their castles here; 
Our priories are Norman; the Norman adder 
Hath Ijitten us; we are poison'd: our dear 

England 
Is demi-Norman. He! — 

[Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 
That I might rest as calmly ! Look at him — 



HAROLD. 



507 



The rosy face, and long down-silvering 
beard, 

The brows unwrinkled as a summer mere. — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sudden 
wreckful gusts 

From a sidfe-gorge. Passionless ? How 
he flamed 

When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung him ! 
Nay, 

He fain had calcined all Northumbria 

To one black ash, but that thy patriot pas- 
sion, 

Siding with our great Council against Tostig, 

Out-passion'd his! Holy? ay, ay, forsooth, 



Harold. No, Stigand, no! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in true life? 

I have heard a saying of thy father Godwin, 

That, were a man of state nakedly true. 

Men would but take him for the craftier liar. 

Leofivin. Be men less delicate than the 

Devil himself? 

I thought that naked truth would shame the 

Devil. 
The Devil is so modest. 

Curth. He never said it! 

Leo/win. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, and hold 



A conscience for his own soul, not his My master honest, than believe that lying 



realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a chink; 
Thine by the sun; nay, by some sun to be, 
When all the world hath learnt to speak 

the truth. 
And lying were self-murder by that state 
Which was the exception. 

Harold. That sun may God speed! 

Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the cloud 

off! 
Harold. Can I, father? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and England; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against 

England, 
And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down to 

Harfleur, 
"Wulfnoth is sick," he said; "he cannot 

follow;" 

Then with that friendly-fiendly smile of his, 
" W'e have learnt to love him, let him a lit- 
tle longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty . 
Of Godwin's, house." As far as touches 

Wulfnoth, 
I that so prized plain word and naked truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leo/win. Good brother. 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd, 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied. 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. ■ May be so! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool * 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 

Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved thee; 

dost thou scorn me 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they dispoped? 



And ruling men are fatal twins that cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Edward. The green tree! 

Then a great Angel past along the highest, 
Ciying "The doom of England, "and at once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd it 

from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd and 

drench'd. 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with human 

blood, 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, and 

set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in 

blood 
Grew ever higher and higher, beyond my 

seeing, 
And shot out sidelong boughs across the 

deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted in far 

isles 
Beyond my seeing; and the great angel rose 
And past again along the highest, crying 
"The doom of England!" — Tostig, raise 

my head. 

[J-'alls liack senseless. 
Harold {raising hit?i). Let Harold serve 

for Tostig! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig! 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low! 
The sickness of our saintly king, for whom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast banish'd 

him. 



5o8 



HAROLD. 



Harold. Nay — hut the Council, and the 

King himself! 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest him. 
Harold [coldly). Ay — Stigand, unriddle 
This vision, canst thou? 

Stigattd. Dotage ! 

Edward {starling up). It is finish'd. 

I have built the Lord a house — the Lord 

hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a house — 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cher- 
ubim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall — 
I have built the Lord a house — sing, Asaph ! 

clash 
The cymbal, Heman! blow the trumpet, 

priest! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo! my two 

pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! — 

[Seeing Marold and Gurth 
Harold, Gurth — where am I? 
Where is the charter of our Westminster? 
Sligand. It lies beside thee. King, upon 

thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, sign 
it, Stigand, Aldred! 
Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and 

Leofwin ! 
Sign it, my Queen! 

All. We have sign'd it. 

Edward. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian lands. 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 

kings. 
And all our just and wise and holy men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is finish'd! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine oath? 
[7^7 Harold. 
Harold. St'igand hath given me absolution 

for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there no 
Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yonder? 

Edward. Prelate, 

The .Saints are one, but those of Normanland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. 

[To Harold 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, my 

King; for he 



Who vow^s a vow to strangle his own mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not overlive 

the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throve is empty. 
Who inherits? 
For tho' we be not bound by the King's voice 
In making of a king, yet the King's voice 
Is much toward his making. Who inherits? 
Edgar the Atheling? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him: he hath served me: none but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse is on 

him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed bones; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edivard. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans; but their Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh! my lord, my King! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not; but those heavenly cars have 

heard. 
Their curse is on him; wilt thou bring an- 
other, 
Edith, upon his head? 

Edith. , No, no, not I. 

Edward. Why then, thou must not wed 

him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore? 

Edward. O son, when thou didst tell me 
of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise given 
To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then 
I should be king. — My son, the Saints are 

virgins: 
They love the white rose of virginity. 
The cold white lily blowing in her cell: 
I have been myself a virgin; and I sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to Heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the Curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold. ' No, no, no. 

Edzvard. Treble denial of the tongue of 
, flesh. 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt 

have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my son! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all prom- 
ises 
Made in our agony for help from Heaven? 



HAROLD. 



509 



Son, there is one who loves ihee : and a wife, 
What matters who, so she be serviceable 
In all obedience, as mine own hath been: 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 

[Laying /lis /tan J on i/ie Queen's /lead. 
Qtieen. liless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 

Edward. All the sweet Saints bless him! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes! 
And let him pass unscathed: he loves me, 

Harold! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among us, 
Who followed me for love! and, dear son, 

swear 
When thou art King to see my solemn vow 
Accomplish'd! 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

lidward. Thou wilt not swear? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edward. Then on thee remains the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her: and on thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

\T/ie King swoons; Edith falls and 
k7teels by t/ie cottc/i. 
Stigand. He liath swoon'd! 

Death?. . . .no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith! 

Aldrcd. Confuse her not; she hath begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwyt/i. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 

Harold. For thine own pleasure? 

*Aldwyt/i, No, but to please our dying 
. King, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all Eng- 
land, Earl. 
Aldrcd. / would thou couldst have sworn. 
Our holy King 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the care- 
fuller 
To find a means whereby the curse might 

glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldrcd. The more the love, the mightier 
is the prayer; 
The more the love, the more acceptable 



The sacrifice of Lolli y>.'Ur loves to 

Heaven; 
No sacrifice to Heaven, no help from 

Heaven. 
That runs thro'all the faiths of all the world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the King 
Is holy; and hath talk'd with God, and seen 
A shadowing honor; there are signs in 
heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill? 

Harold. . I know all Sussex; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous hour! 
Aldred. Pray God that come not sud- 
denly! There is one 
Who passing by that hill three nights ago — 
He shook so that he scarce could out with 

it- 
Heard, heard — 

Harold. The wind in his hair? 
Aldred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle-hymns, 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans of 

men; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon the hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out the 

marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Harold. At Senlac? 
Aldrcd. Senlac. 

Ediijard (waking). Senlac, Sanguelac, 
The Lake of Blood! 

Stigand. This lightning before death 

Plays on the word, and Normanizes too! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush! 
Edivard. Thou uncanonical fool, 

Wilt l/iou play with the thunder? North 

and South 
Thunder together, showers of blood are 

blown 
Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench — a 

lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'd in blood 

— for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has drawn 

the bow — 
Sanguelac! Sanguelac! the arrow! the ar- 
row ! [^Dics. 
Stigand. It ie the arrow of death in his 
own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown thee 
King. 



510 



HAROLD. 



SCENE II.— IN THE GARDEN. THE 
KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 

Edith. 

Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, crown'd 
King — and lost to me! 
{Singing.) 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather; 
Both were lost and found together. 
None beside them. 

That is the burden of it — lost and found 

Together in the cruel river Swale 

A hundred years ago; and there's another, 

Lost, lost, the light of day, 

To which the lover answers lovingly, 

" I am beside thee." 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 
•' Love, I will guide thee." 

Whither, O whither? into the river.. 
Where we two may be lost together. 
And lost for ever? "Oh! never, oh! never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found together." 

Some think they loved within the pale for- 
bidden 

By Holy Church: but who shall say? the 
truth 

Was lost in that fierce North, where they 
were lost, 

Where all good things are lost, where Tostig 
lost 

The good hearts of his people. It is Harold ! 

Enter Harold. 

Harold the King! 

Harold. Call me not King, but Harold. 

Edith. Nay, thou art King! 

Harold. Thine, thine, or King or churl! 
My girl, thou hast been weeping: turn not 

thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and command 
That kiss my due when subject, which will 

make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou be only 
King of the moment over England. 



Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have 

lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath. 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's dream; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. 
O God! I cannot help it, but at times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose baby 

eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little light! — 
And on it falls the shadow of the priest; 
Heaven yield us more ! for better, Woden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim Wal- 

halla. 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should be 
This William's fellow-tricksters; — better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — thou 

art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in my kiss. 
And more than sister in thine own. 

Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — " Love 
for a whole life long " 
When was that sung? 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, 
how sweet they are! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king co crtes 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring. 

They fly the winter change — not so with us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change and in the eternal distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true. 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they! I did not know it. 

Edith. They say thou art to wed the Lady 
Aldwyth. 

Harold. They say, they say. 

Edith. If this be politic. 

And well for thee and England — and for 

her — 
Care not for me who love thee. 

Gttrth [calling). Harold, Haroldl 

Harold. The voice of Gurth! [Enter 
GuRTH.)Good even,mygood brother! 



HAROLD. 



5" 



Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. ■ Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. HI news hath come! Our hapless 
brother Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, Har- 
old 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Ork- 
ney, 
Are landed North of Huniber, andin a field 
So packt with carnage that the dikes and 

brooks 
Were bridged and damni'd with dead, have 

overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well, then, we must fight. 

How blows the wind? 

Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 

Harold. Well, then, we will to the North. 
Gurth. Ay, but worse news: this Wil- 
liam sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his Saints : 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hildebrand 
His master, heard him, and have sent him 

back 
A holy gonfalon, and a blessed haii 
Of Peter; and all France, all Burgundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised against 

thee; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those who 

fight for thee. 
And given thy realm of England to the bas- 
tard. 
Harold. Ha! ha! 

Edith. (Jh! laugh not !... .Strange and 
ghastly in the gloom 



And shadowing of this double thunder-cloud 
That lours on England — laughter! 

Harold. No, not strange! 

This was old human laughter in old Rome 
Before a pope was born, when that which 

reign'd 
Call'd itself (iod. — A kindly rendering 
Of " Render unto Cresar.". . . . The Good 

Shepherd! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and came as 
man — the Pope 
Is man and comes as God. — York taken? 

Gurth. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken Yoik! 

Harold. To York, then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been^braver, I had better braved 
All — but I love thee, and thou me — and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 

It burns my hand — a curse to thee and me. 
I dare not wear it. 
\_rroffcrs Harold the ring, which he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee! 
[E.veunt Harold atid Gurth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, if he 

marry me; 

The Pope hath cursed him, marry meor no! 

God help me ! I know nothing — can but pray 

For Hai-old — pray, pray, pray — no help but 

prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. —In NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbishop aldred, Morcar, Edwin, 
and Forces. Enter Harold. The stan- 
dard of the Golden Dragon of IVessex 
preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sullen from 

defeat ? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the Hum- 

ber. 
No voice to greet it. 



Edwin. Let not our great King 

Believe us sullen — only shamed to the quick 
Before the King — as having been so bruised 
By Harold, King of Norway; but our help 
Is Harold, King of England. Pardon us, 

thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the King! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians! if the 
truth be gall. 
Cram me not thou with honey, when our 

good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 



512 



hAROLD. 



Voices. Aldwyth! Aldwyth! 

Harold. Why cry thy people on thy sis- 
ter's name? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our people 
thro' her beauty, 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth! 

■Harold. They shout as they would have 

her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our host, 

and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon carles 
Against Ilardrada. 

Voice. Little! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our own 
field. 
Harold. They have been plotting here ! 

\Aiide. 
Voice. He calls us little! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world be- 
gan with little, 
A hill, a fort, a city — that reach'd a hand 
Down to the field beneath it. " Be thou 

mine;" 
Then to the next, " Thou also — " if the field 
Cried out "I am mine own;" another hill, 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire 

Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon: w^ are Danes! 
Harold. My mother is a Dane, and I am 
English; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books, 
Ye take a stick, and break it; bind a score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold! he says true! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman? 

Voices. No! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band then 
Voice. That is true 

Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, only 
grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes; and yet he held that 
Dane, 



Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be all 
One England, for this cow herd) like my 

father. 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels off the 

throne. 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king of men, 
Not made, but born, like the great King of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for mine 
own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

J'oice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 

Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 

Your land from waste : I saved it once before, 
For when your people banish'd Tostig hence, 
And Edward would have sent a host against 

you, 
Then I, who loved my brother,bade the King, 
Who doted on him, sanction your decree 
Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of Mor- 
car, 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King! thy brother. 

If one may dare to speak the truth, was 

wrong'd. 
Wild was he, born so: but the plots against 

him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treasure- 
house 
And slew two hundred of his following. 
And now, when Tostig hath come back 

with power. 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh! Plots and feuds! 

This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye not 
Be brethren? Godwin still at feud with 

Alfgar, 
And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots and 

feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday! 

Morcar. O^ft man, Harold 

Hates nothing;not his fault, i/our two houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth! 
Harold. Again! Morcar! Edwin! What 

do they mean? 
Edxsjin. So the good King would deign 
to lend an ear 
Not overscornful, we might chance — per- 
chance — 
To guess their meaning. 



HAROLD. 



513 



Morcar. Thine own meaning, Harold, 
To make all England one, to close all feuds, 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king may 

rise 
Half Godwin and half Alfgar, one to rule 
All England beyond question, beyond quar- 
rel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 

among the' people? 
Morcar. Who knows what sows itself 
among the people? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 
To hate nie; I have heard she hates me. 

Morcar. No! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot swear 
That these will follow thee against the 

Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my house ? 

Edtvin. The King can scarcely dream 

that we, who know 

His prowess in the mountains of the West, 

Should care to plot against him in the 

North. 

Morcar . Who dares arraign us. King, of 

such a plot? 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even now. 
Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for Tostig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — fright not 
love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if I 
yield, 
Follow against the Norseman? 

Morcar. Surely, surely! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, up- 
on oath, 
Help us against the Norman? 

Morcar. With good will; 

Yea, take the .Sacrament upon it. King. 
Harold. Where is thy sister? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand; 

Call and she comes. 

[ One goes out, then enter Al.DWYTH 

Harold. I doubt not but thou knowest 

Why thou art summon'd. 

Aldivyth. Why? — I stay with these. 

Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out alone, 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, unqueen 
thee? 

33 



Didst thou not love thine husband? 

Aldwyth. Uh ! my lord, 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage King — 
That was, my lord, a match of policy. 

Harold. Was it? 

I knew him brave: he loved his land; he 

fain 
Had made her great: his finger on her harp 
( I heard him more than once) had in it 

Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills: had I been 

his, 
I had been all W'elsh. 

Aldivyth. Oh, ay — all Welsh — and yet 
I saw thee diive him up his hills — and 

women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, the 

more: 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh! good Morcar, speak for us, 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldvvyth. 

Harold. Goodly news! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou! Since Grif- 
fyth's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. Ald- 

wyth, Aldwylh, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing where I 
love? 
Ahhvyth. I can, my lord, for mine own 
sake, for thine. 
For England, for thy poor white dove, who 

flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then would 

find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one who cannot 

love again? 
Ahhvyth. Full hope have I that love will 

answer love. 
Harold. Then, in the name of the great - 
God, so be it! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before the 

hosts, 
That all may see. 

[Aldred y<?/«j the hafids of Harold 
and Aldvvyth and l>lesses thcvi. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldvvyth! 
Harold. Set forth our Golden Dragon, 
let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold; and thou, 
brave banner. 



5H 



HAROLD. 



Blaze like a night of fatal stars dp. those 

Who read their doom and die. 

Where lie the Norsemen? on the Der- 

went? ay, 
At Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar, collect thy men; Edwin, my friend. 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me in 

dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering 

beard — 
He told me I should conquer: — 
I am no woman to put faith in dreams. 
{7u his Army.) Last night King Edward 

came to me in dreams — 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward! Forward! 

Harold and Holy Cross! 

A/cki'vtJi. The day is won! 

SCENE H.— A PLAIN BEFORE THE 
BATTLE OF STAMFORD-BRn)GE. 

Hariu.d and /lis (iuard. 

Harold. WHio is it that comes this way? 
Tostig? 
(/;«/(-';■ TosTlG li'ith a small force). 

O brother, 
^What art thou doing here? 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 

Thou art in arms against us. 

'I OS tig. Take and slay me. 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bade me spare thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he join'd 
with thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay me, 

I say. 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have 

war; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save for 

Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, save 

for Norway, 
Who loves not thee, luU war. What dos! 

thou here, 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into blood? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from it with 
such bitterness. 
1 come for mine o»wn Eaildnm, my Xortli- 
umbria : 



Thou hast given it to the enemy of our 

house. 

Harold. Northumbria threw thee oft", she, 

will not have thee; ,' 

Thou hast misused her: and, O crowning 

crime! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son of 

Orm, ■ 
Ciamel, at thine own heartli. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool! 

He drawl'd and prated so, 1 smote him sud- 
denly, 
I knew n(<t wlial I did. 

Harold. Come baCk to us, 

Know what thou dost, and we may find tor 

thee. 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banishment, 
-Some easier Earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 

He looks for land among you, he and his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, or 
something more, 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. O brother, brother, 

Harold— 

Harold. Nay then come back to us! 

Tostig. Never shall any man say that 1, 
that Tostig 

Conjured the mightier Harold from his 
North 

To do the battle for me here in England, 

Then left him for the meaner! thee! 

Thou hast no passion for the House of God- 
win — 

Thou hast but cared to make thyself a King— 

Thou hast sold me for a cry — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in the 
Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and de y 

thee. 
Farewell for ever! [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge! 

SCENE HL— AFTER THE BATTLE 
OF STAMFORD - BRIDGE. BAN- 
QUET. 

IL\ROLi) rt;/(/ALn\vvTii. GuRTii, Leof- 
AviN, Morcar, Edwin, and other Earls 
(77/(/ Thanes. 

Voices. Hail, Harold! Aldwyth! hail, 

bridegroom and bride! 
Aldivyih [talking ivith Harold). Answer 

them thou! 



HAROLD. 



5^5 



Is this our mairiagc-banqud? Would the One soul! and therefore have we shatter'd 

wines j back 

Of wedding had been dash'd into the cups The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken 
Been drunk together 1 these poor hands but The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion 

sew, croak 

Spin, broider — would that they were man's From the gray sea for ever. Many are 

to have held ' gone — 

The battle-axe by thee! Drink to the dead \vho died for us, the liv- 

Ilarold. There 7vas a mcmrent ing 

When being forced aloof from all my Who fougljt and would have died, but 

guard, happier lived. 

And striking at Hardrada and his mad- If happier lie to live; they both have life 

men In the large mouth of England, till her 

1 had wish'd for any weapon. voice 

Ald7iiyth. Why art thou sad? Die with the world. Hail! — Hail! 

Harold. I have lost the boy that play'd il/(9rc(?;-. i^Iay all invaders perish like Kar- 
at ball with me, i drada! 
With whom I fought another fight than All traitors fail like Tostig! 

this 1 \^All drijik lntt\\K\^0\^Vi. 



Of Stamford-bridge. 
Aldii<vih. 



lldivyih. Thy cup's full! 

Ay! ay! thy victories! Harold. T saw the hand of Tostig cover 
it. 



Over our own poor Wales, when at thy 

side Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him 

He conquer'd with thee. Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been 

Harold. No — the childish fist here. 

That cannot strike again. Without too large self-lauding I must hold 

Aldivylh. Thou art too kindly. The sequel had been other than his league 

Why didst thou let so many Norsemen With Norway, and this battle. Peace be 

hence? I with him! 

Thy fierce forekings had clench'd their pi- He was not of the worst. If there be those 

rate hides At banquet in this hall, and hearing me — 

To the bleak church doors, like kites upon For there be those I fear who prick'd the 

a barn. # ' lion 

Harold. Is there so great a need to tell To make him spring, tliat sight of Danish 

thee why? i blood 

Aldivyth. Vea, am I not thy wife? Might serve an end not English — peace will 



J'oices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth! 

Bridegroom and bride! 

Aldwyt/i [i'o Harold). Answer them! 



them 

Likewise, if //uy can be at peace \Mih 
what 



Harold [fo all). Earls and Thanes! God gave us to divide us from tlie wolf! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of my! Aldwylh [aside to Harola). Make not oui 



bride! 



Morcar sullen: it is not wise. 



Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen! the' Harold. Hail to the living who fouglit, 



day, 

Our day beside the Dcrwent will not shine 

Less than a star among the goldenest hours 

Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son. 

Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 

Who fought with Knut, or Knut who, com- 
ing Dane, 

Died English. Every man about his King 

Fought like a king; the King like his ownj Seeing he is a giant!" 



the dead w ho fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail! 
First T/iatie. How ran that answer which 

King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for 

England? 
Leof'uiin. " Seven feet of English earth, 

or something m«re. 



)ne for all, and all for one, 



First Tliaiie. Then (or tht bastard 

'Six feet and nf'thing niord 



5i6 



HAROLD. 



Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund, 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the 

man 
Here by dead Norway without dream oi 
dawn ! 
Second Thane. What, is he bragging still 
that he will come 
To thrust our Harold's throne from under 

him? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying 
To a mountain " Stand aside and room for 
me!" 
First Thane. Let him come! let him 
come. Here's to him, sink or swim! 
IDrinks. 
Second Thane. God sink him! 
First Thatie. Cannot hands which had 
the strength 
To shove that standard iceberg off our shores, 
And send the shatter'd North again to sea, 
Scuttle his cockle-shell ? What's Brunanburg 
To Stamford-bridge? a war-crash, and so 

hard, 
So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. Thor — 
By God, we thought him dead — but our old 

Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and woke 

and came 

Among us again, and mark'd the sons of those 

Who made this Britain England break the 

North : 

Mark how the war-axe swang, 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang. 
Heard how the shield-wall rang. 
Iron on iron clang. 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, ham- 
mer on anvil. Old dog. 
Thou art drunk, old dog! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight with thee! 
Second Thane. Fight thou with thine 
own double, not with me: 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William ! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's brat! 
Fourth Thane. The tanner's bastard! 
Fifth Ihane. The Falaise byblow ! 

[Enters Thxnc, from Pevensey, spat- 
tered "ioith mud. 
Harold. Ay, but what late guest, 

As haggard as a fast of forty days, 



And caked and plaster'd with a hundred 
mires. 

Hath stumbled on our cups? 

Thane from Pevensey. My lord the King! 

William the Norman, for the wind had 
changed — 
Harold. 1 felt it in the middle of that 
fierce fight 

At Stamford-bridge. William hath landed,! 
ha? 1 

Thane from Pevensey. Landed at Pe- 
vensey — I am from Pevensey — 

Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey — 

Hath harried mine own cattle — God con- 
found him! 

I have ridden night and day from Peven- 
sey — 

A thousand ships, a hundred thousand 
men — 

Thousands of horses, like as many lions 

Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 
land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast thou 

broken bread? 
Thanefrom Pevensey. Some thrice, or so. 
Harold. Bring not thy hoUowness 

On our full feast. Famine is fear, were it but 

Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, and eat. 

And, when again red-blooded, speak again; 

{Aside.) The men that guarded England to 
to the South 

Were scatter'd to the harvest No power 

mine 

To hold their force^ogether Many are 

fallen 

At Stamford-bridge the people, stupid 

sure. 

Sleep like their swine in South and 

North at once 

I could not be. 

(Aloud.) (iurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin! 

(Pointing to the revellers.) The curse of 
England! these are drown'd in was- 
sail, 

And cannot see the world but thro' their 
wines! 

Leave them! and thee too, Aldwyth, must I 
leave — ■ 

Harsh is the news! hard is our honeymoon! 

Thy pardon. [Turninground to his attend- 
ants.) Break the banquet up Ve 

four ! 

And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black news. 

Cram thy crop full, but come when thou 
an call'd. \^Exit Harold. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.— A TENT ON A MOUND, 
FR()M\VHICIICAN BE SEE\THE 
FIELD OF SENLAC. 

Harold, sitting; by him standing 
Hugh Margot the Monk, Girth, 
Leokwin. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown to 

Rome!. ...The wolf 
Mudded the brook, and predetermined all. 
Monk, 
Thou hast said thy say, and had my cc)nbtant 

"No" 
For all but instant battle. I hear no more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the last 

time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the hill. 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father 
Hath given this realm of England to the 

Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, monk, I 

ask again 
When had the Laleran and the Holy Father 
To do with England's choice of her own 

king? 
Margot. Earl, the first Christian Caesar 

drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the 

West. 
Harold. So! — did he? — Earl — I have a 

mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and thy 

tongue. 
Earl — ay— thou art but a messenger of Wil- 
liam. 
I am weary — go: make me not wr<jth with 

thee! 
Ma7'got. Mock-king, I am the messenger 

of God, 
His Norman Daniel! Mene, Mene, Tekel! 
Is thy wrath hell, that I should spare to 

cry. 
Yon heaven is wroth with thee.'' Hear me 

again! 
Our Saints have moved the Church that 

moves the world, 
And all the heavens and very God: they 

heard — > 



They know King Edward's promise and 
thine — thine. 
Harold. Should they not know free Eng- 
land crowns herself? 
Not know that he nor I had pewer to prom- 
ise? 
And for viy part therein — Back to that 
-juggler, '/■Rising) 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 

dreams. 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand armed on Senlac 

Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn is 

cursed, 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is 

cursed, 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine earth 

is cursed, 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed, 
The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed. 
The steer wherewith thou plowest the field 

is cursed. 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar— 

Harold. Out, beast monk! 

{Lifting his hand to strike hivi. 
GURTH stops the bloiv. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martyr me if ye will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth! The simple, 
silent, selfless man 
Is worth a world of tonguesters. ( 7b Mar- 
got.) Get thee gone! 
He means the thing he says. See him out 
safe! 
Leofxvin. He hath blown himself as red 
as fire with curses. 
An honest fool! Follow me, honest fool, 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg-bald head 
The tap that silences. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

\Exeunt Leofvvin and Margot. 
Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even temper, 
brother Harold! 

(517) 



Si8 



HAROLD. 



Harold. Guith, wlieii I past by Waltham, 

my foundation 
For men who serve the neighbor, not them- 
selves, 
I cast me down prone, praying: and, sslien 

I rose. 
They told me that the Holy Rood had leanM 
And bow'd above me; whether that which 

held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were 

bound 
To that necessity which binds us down; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell? but they were sad, 
And somewhat sadden 'd me. 

Gttrtk. Yet if a fear. 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints 
By whom thou swarest should have power 

to balk 
Thy puissance in this tight with him who 

made 
And heard thee swear — brother — /have not 

sworn — 

If the King fall, may not the kingdom fall? 
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art King; 
And if I win, I win, and thou art King; 
Draw thou to London, there make strength 

to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day to me 
Leaf will {entering). And waste the land 

about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the field, 
To leave the foe no forage 

Harold. Noble Gurth! 

Best son of Godwin! If I fall, I fall — 
The doom of God! How should the people 

fight 
When the King Hies! And, Leofwin art 

thou mad? 
How should the King of England waste the 

fields 
Of England, his own people? — No glance 

yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath? 
Leofwin. No, but a shoal of wives upon 

the heath. 
And some one saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our cold dews, 

a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. Let her 

be fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife without re-, 

proaeh, I 



Tho' we have dived thro' all her practices; 
And that is well. 

Lcofwi7t. I saw her even now: 

She hath not left us 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then? 

Giirth. Nor seen, nor heard; thine, Wil- 
liam's, or his own 
As wind blows, or tide Hows: belike he _ 

watches. 
If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northuniber- • 
land. 
Harold. I married her for Morcar — a sin 
against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as evil 
For evil. 

Leofzuin. Good for good hath borne at 
times 
A bastard false as W'illiam. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am some- 
what worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace of 

God. 
Gurlh, Leofwin, go once more about the 

hill— 
What did the dead man call it — Sanguelac, 
The Lake of Blood^ 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in William 
As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 

The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd 
And wattled thick with ash and willow 

wands; 
Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round 

once more; 
See all be sound and whole. No Norman 

horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield by 

shield; 
Tell that again to all. 

Giirth. 1 will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but toilM 
his hand and foot, 
In hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine I 
( One pours wine into a goblet, which 
he hands to Harold.) Too much ! 
W'hat? we must use our battle axe to-day. 
Our guardsmen have tlept well, since we 
came in? 
Leofwin. Ay, slept and snored. Your 
second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of the 
King, 



HAROLD. 



519 



Misheard their snores for groans. Tliey arc- 
up again 
And chanting that old song ijf Bnmanburg 
Where Englaml conquerVl. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 
What is he doing? 

Leo fw ill. Praying for Normandy; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their 
bells. 
Hnrohi. And (Hir old songs are prayers 
for England tool 
But by all Saints — 

Lcofwin. Barring the Norman! 

Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing doomsday 

dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the Norman 
moves — 

\ Exeunt all biit Harold 
No horse — thousands of horses — our shield 

wall- 
Wall — break it not — break not — break — 

{Sleeps. 
I isioii oj Edivard. Son Harold, I thy 
King, who came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stamford- 
bridge 
Come yet once more, from where I am at 

peace, 
Because I loved thee in my mortal day. 
To tell thee thou shalt die aw Senlac hill 
Sanguelac! 

Vision of Wnlfnolh. (J brother, from my 
ghastly oubliette 
I send my vc>ice across the narrow seas — 
No more, no more, dear brother, never- 
more — 
Sanguelac! 

/ ision of Tostig. O brcjiher, most un- 
Ijrotherlike to me, 
Thou gavcit thy* voice against me in my 

life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

grave— 
Sanguelac! 

Vision of Xor//i:in .Sain/s. () hajdess 
Harold! King but Uiv an hour! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac! Sanguelac! The arrow I the 
arrow ! 
Harold [starting up, bnttle-a.xe in hand.) 
Away ! 
My battle-axe against your voices. Peace! 



The King's last word — " the arrow !" I shall 

die— 
I die for England then, who lived for Eng- 
land— 
What nobler? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor 

brother, 
Art ihon so anger'tl? 

Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that 

wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I could 

do 
No other than this way advise the King 
Against the race of Godwin. Is il possible 
That mortal men should bear their earthly 

heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us 

thence 
Unschool'd of Death? Thus then thou art 

revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The Norse- 
man's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of 

Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our waking 

thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed : only dreams — where mine own 

self 
Takes part against myself! Why? for a 

spaik 
Of self-disdain born in me when I sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom 
I knew not that I sware, — not for myself — 
For England — yet not wholly — 

Enter Edith. 

Edith, Edith, 

Get thou into thy cloister as the King 
Will'd it: be safe: the pcrjury-mongering 

Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy Church 
To break her close! There the great God 

of truth 
Fill all thine liours with peace! — A lying 

devil 
Hath haunted nie — mine oath — my wife — I 

fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie; I could 

not: 



520 



HAROLD. 



Thou art my bride! and thou in after-years Was England. Ethelred was nothing. Eng 

I'raying perchance for this poor soul of mine| land 

In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon — - Is but her King, and thou art Harold! 

This memory to thee! — and this to England,! Harold. Edith, 

My legacy of war against the Pope 

From child to child, from Pope to Pope, 

from age to age. 
Till the sea wash her level with her shores. 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Eniei- Aldwyth. 



The sign in heaven — the sudden blast at 

sea -- 
The fatal oath —the dead Saints the dark 

dreams — 
The Pope's Anathema — the Holy Rood 
That bow'd to me at Waltham — Edith, if 
I, the last English King of England — 
Ahkvyth {to Edith). Away from him !j Edilh. No, 

Edith. I will....I have not spoken to the First of a line that coming from the people, 



King 

One word; and one I must. Farewell! 

[ Going. 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 

Edith. To what use? 
Harold. The King commands thee, 
woman! 
{To Aldwyth). Have thy two brethren sent 
their forces in? 
Aldwyth. Nay, I fear, not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in thee! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's ear 
To part me from the woman that I loved! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce Northumbrians! 
Thou hast been false to England and to 
me ! — 

As ill some sort I have been false to 

thee. 
Leave me. No more — pardon on both sides. 
Go! 
Ald-wytJi. Alas, my lord, I love thee. 
Harold {bitterly). With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! wherefore 

now 
Obey my first and last commandment 
Go! 
Aldivyth. O Harold! Husband! Shall we 

meet again? 
Harold. Alter the battle — after the bat 

tie. Go. 
Aldwyth. I go. {Aside.) That I could 
stab her standing there! 

\^Exit Aluwvth. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never! Never! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall God's 
doom. 

Edith. On thee? on me. And thou art 
England! Alfred 



And chosen by the people 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living! living! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer! thou art 
Harold, I am Edith! 
Look not thus wan! 

Edith. What matters how I Ijok? 

Have we not broken Wales and Norseland? 

slain. 
Whose life was all one battle, incarnate 

war. 
Their giant-king, a mightier man-inarms 
Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in him — 
No bastard he! when all was lost, he 

ydl'd. 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 

ground. 
And swaying his two-handed sword about 

him. 
Two deatiis at every swing, ran in upon 

us 
And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate can 

kill. 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy hiight before the 

battle! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will see 

thee safe. 
And so — farewell. 

\^He is going, but turns back. 
The ring thou darest not wear, 
1 have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my 
hand. 

[Harold sho-ws the ring tuhich is on his 
finder. 

Farewell! [//«' is going, but turns back 

again. 



HAROLD. 



521 



I am dead as Death this day to aught of 
earth's 1 

Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death! — to-day! 

Is it not thy birthday? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day! 

A birthday welcome! happy days and 

many ! 
One — this! yriwy embrace. 

Look, I will bear thv blessing into the bat- 
tle 
And front the doom of God. 

Xornian cries {heard in the distance'). Ha 
Rou! Ha Rou! 

Enter Cl'RTH. 
Gitrth. The Norman moves. i 

Harold. Harold and Holy Cross!! 

[^Exeimt Harolu and GuRTH.l 
Enter Sti(;and. 
Stigand. Our Church in arms — the lamb' 
the lion — not 
Spear into pruning-hook — the' counter way— I 
Cowl, helm; and crosier, battle-axe. Ab- 
bot Allwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro' 
Strike for the King; but I, old wretch, Old 

Stigand, 
\Vith hands too limp to brandish iron — and 

yet 
I havea j)ower — would Harold ask me forit-- 

I have a power. 

Edith. What power, holy father? 

Stigand. Power now from Harold to 
command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, until I 

find 

Which way the battle balance, I can see it 
From where we stand; and, live or die, I 

ivould 
I were among them! 
Canons _/>-(/;/< Haltham {singing without). 

Salva patriam 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fili, 
Salva Spiiitus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Mater.''' 
Edith. Are those the blessed angels qui- 
ring, father? 



♦The <■£ throughout these hymns should be sound- 
ed bruad, as i.i "lather," 



Stigand. No, daughter, but the canons 
out of Waltham, 
The King's foundation, that have follow'd 
him. 
Edith. O God of battles, make their 
wall of shields 
Firm as thy clifls, strengthen their pali- 
sades! 
What is that whirring sound? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is he 

safe? 
Stigand. The King of England stands 
between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Haiold! 

Edith. — Chosen by his people 

And lighting for his people! 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he flings 
His brand in air and catches it again: 
He is chanting some old war-song. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him? 

Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon on 
him, 
Falls — and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on us! 

Stigand. Lo! our good Gurth hath smit- 
ten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of Har- 
old! 

Canons {singing). 
Hostis in Angliam 

Ruit prredator, 
Illoruni, Domine, 

Cutum scindatur! 
Plostis per Anglias 

Plagas I'.acchalur; 

Casa crematur, 

Pastor fugatur 

Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons {s inging ) . 
Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur! 

English Cries. Harold and Holy Cross! 

Out! out! 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot 
Are storming up the hill. The lange of 
Knights 



522 



HA ROT. D. 



Sit, each a statue on his horse, and wait. 
English Cries. Harold and God Almighty ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! 

Canons [singing). 
Eques cum peditc 

Pra;pediatur ! 
Illoruin in lacrymas 

Cruor fundatur! 
Pereant, pereant, 
Anglia precatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me! 

Stigand. ()\\\ axes lighten with a single 
tiash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd oft" and splinter'd by 
Their lightning — and they fly— the Norman 
flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O father, have we won 

the day? 
.Stigand. No, daughter, no — they fall 
behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the barricades; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy I'eter 
Floating above their helmets— ha! he is 
down ! 
Edith. He down! Who down? 
Stigand. The Norman Count is down. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

England ! 

Stigand. No, no, he liath ris^-n again — 

he bares his face — 

Shouts something — he points onward — all 

their horse j 

Swallow the hill locust- like, swarming uj). 

Edith. O God of battles, make his bat ' 

tle-axe keen I 

As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy 

As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful 

heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven where- 
from they fall! 

C .V N o N s [s inging) . 
Jacta tonitrua 

Deus bellator! 

Surgas e tenebris, 

Sis vindicator! 

Fulmina, fulmina 

Deus vastator! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are three 
to one, 
Make thou one man as three to roll them 
down! 



(Canons (singing). 

Equus cum equile 

Dejiciatur! 
Acies, Acies 
Prona sternatur! 
Illorum lanceas 

Frange Cris'ator! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their lances 

snap and shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's axe! 
War-woodman of old Woden, how he fells 
The mortal copse of faces! There! Ami 

there 
The horse and horseman cannot meet the 

shield. 
The blow that brains the horseman cleaves 

the horse; 
The horse and horseman roll along the hill: 
They fly once more, they fly, the Norman 

flies! 

Equus cum equite 
Prnecipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them to 
the sea! 



Illorum scelera 
Pcena sequatur! 



trick, 



Stigand. Truth! no; a lie; 
Norman trick! 
They turn on the jnirsuer, horse against 

foot, 
They murder all that follow. 

Edith. Have mercy on us! 

Stigand. Hut-headed fools — to burst the 
wall of shields! 
They have 1)roken the commandment of the 
King! 
Edith. His oath was broken— O holy 
Norman Saints, 
Ye thai are now of heaven, and see beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it, 
That he forsware himself for all beloved, 
Me, me and all! Look out upon the battle! 
Stigand. They thunder again upon the 
barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick — 
This is the hottest of it: hold, ash! hold, 
willow ! 
English Cries. Out, out! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou! 




Stigand (ARCHmsHOr). " And Leofivin is down ! " 
Edith. " Ila-i'e mercy on us ! 

O Thou that knoivest, let not my strong prayer- 
Be weakened in thy sight, because I love 
The husband of another! " 

The Hattle-Scene in Harold, Page 523. 



HAROLH. 



523 



Siigand. Ha! Gurth hath leapt upon hinr 

And slain him: he hath fallen. j 

Edith. And I am heard, j 

Glory to God in the HighestI fallen, fallen! 

Stigand. No, no, his horse — he mounts 1 

another — wield-s 

His war club, dashes it on (.;urth,and Gurlh, 

Our nol)le Gurth, is down! 1 

Edilli. Have mercy on us!' 

Stigand. And l.eofwin is down! | 

Edith. Have mercy on us! 

O Thou that knowest, let not my strong 

piayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love 
The husband of another! 

Xornian Cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! 

Edith. I do not iiear our English war 

cry. 
Stigand. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle— is he 

safe? 
Stigand. He stands between the banners, 
with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 
Edith {takes up the war-cry). Out! out! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou! 

Edith {cries out). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
Aornian cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! 

Edith. What is that whirring sound? 
Stigand. The Norman sends his arrtws 
up to heaven, 
They fall on those within the palisade! 
Edith. Look out upon the hill — is Harold 
there? 
- Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the ar- 
row — the arrow! — away! 

SCENE IL— FIELD OF THE DEAD. 
NIGHT. 

Aldwvth ««(/ Edith. 

Aldywth. O Edith, art thou here? O Har- 
old, Harold^ — 

Our Harold — we shall never see him more. 
Edith. For there was more than sister in 
my kiss, 

And so the saints were wroth. I cannot 
love them, 

For they are Norman saints — and yet I 
should — 

They are so much holier than their harlot's 
son 

With whom they play'd their game against 
the King! 



.Udioylli. The King is slain, thekingdom 

overthrown! 
Edith. No matter! 

A/dioyth. How no matter, Harold slain ?- 
I cannot find his body. O, help me thou! 

Edith, if 1 ever wrought against thee. 
Forgive me thou, and help me here! 

Edith. No matter! 

Ahhoyth. Not help me, nor forgive me? 
Edith. ^ So tliou saidest. 

Aldioyth. I say it now, forgive me! 
Edith. Cross memt! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in secret. 
Whisper! Clod's angels only know it. Ha! 
Wiiat ait then doing here among the dead? 
They are stripping the dead bodies naked 

yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of their 
rings ! 
Aldzoyth. O Edith, Edith, I have hst both 
crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

] am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine! 

The Holy Father strangled him with a hair 
(Jf Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands ami 

laugh 'd; 
Then all the dead fell on- him. 

Aldwyth. Edilh, Edith— 

Edith. What was he like, this husband? 
like to thee? 
Call nut fur help from me. I knew him 

not. 
Helies not here: not close beside the stand- 
ard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of Eng- 
land. 
( lO further hence and find him. 

Aldiiyth. She is crazed I 

Edith. That doth not matter either. 
Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, OsGOi) a;;^/ATHKi.Ric, 
with torches. They tjcrn over the dead 
bodies and examine them as they pass. 
Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. 

Athelric. Ivlore likely Godric. 
Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the King's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is! 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from brow 
to knee! 



524 



HAROLD. 



Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is He! 

Aldivyth. Harold ? Oh no — nay, if it 
were - my God, 
They have so niaim'd and murder'd all his 

face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman! 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not some one ask'd me for for- 
giveness? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore re- 
venge. 

Enter Count William <?«(/ W^illiam 
Malet. 

Williatn. Who be these women? And 

what body is this? 
Edith. Harold, thy better! 
William. Ay, and what art thou? 

Edith. His wife! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the 

Queen! \^l\nnting out Aldwyth. 

Williavi {to Aldzvyth). Wast thou his 

Queen? 
Aldzvyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 
William. Why, then, of England! Ma- 
dam, fear us not. 
{To Malet.) Knowest thou this other? 

Malet. When I visited England' 

Some held she w as his wife in secret — 

some — 
Well — some believed she was his-paramour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest! liars all of 
of you. 
Your Saints and all! / am his wife! and 

she — 
For look, our marriage -ring! 

\^She draivs it off the finger of Harold. 
I lost it somehow — 
I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser now 
I am too wise. . , .Will none among you all 
]5ear me true witness — only for this once 
That I have found it here again? 

\Jihe puts it on. 
And thou, 
Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

\Falls on the body and dies 
William. Death! — and enough of death 
for this one day. 
The day of Saint Calixtus, and the day, 
My day, when I was born, 



Malet. And this dead King's, 

Wh«, King or not, hath kinglike fought and 

fallen, 
His birthday, too. It seems but yester-even 
I held it with him in his English halls. 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing 

'< Harold." 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy; 
When all men counted Harold would be 

king. 
And Harold was most happy. 

William. Th«u art half English. 

Take them away! 

Malet, I vow to build a church to God 
Here on this hill of battle; let our high altar 
Stand where their standard fell where 

these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, 

Malet! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I hack her 

arms off ? 
How shall I part them? 

William. Leave them. Let them be! 
Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will not 

give him 
A Christian burial: yet he was a warrior. 
And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted 

vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land for 

which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior — ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us. 
And that the false Northumbrian held aloof. 
And save for that chance arrow which the 

Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — who can 

tell? 
Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I knew 

battle, 
And that was from my boyhood, never yet — 
No, by the splendor of God — have I fought 

men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard 
Of English. Every man about his King 
Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, 

pray God 
My Normans may but move as true with 

me 



HAROLD. 



52s 



To the door of death. Of one self-stock at; Flat. I'laiae the Saints, ll is over! N« 

first, more blood! 

Make them again one ]>cople — Norman, lam King of England, so they thwart me not, 

English; And I will rule according to their laws. 

And English, Norman; — we should have z.\To A!dwvth). Madam, we will entreat thee 

with all honor. 



hand 

To grasp the world with, and a foot to 
stamp it 



Aldvjyih. My punishment is more than I 
can bear! 




UNAVOWTJ) POEMS. 




UN A VOWED POEMS. 

\ The folloiviii"- Poenn have becu collected froin various sou7-ces , and are here 
published because thev have recently been printed in other AMERICAN collections. 
They have, hoiocvcr, been omitted by the Author from his latest revised editions, 
or have never been expressly avoived by hi//i.] 



Have buried deep, and thou of later name, 
Imperial Eldorado, roof 'd with gold; 
Shadows _to which, despite all shocks of 

change, 
All on-set of capricious accident, 
Men clung with yearning hope which 

would not die. 
} As when in some great city where the walls 



TIMBUCTOO.* 

" Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic citv, goal of high emprise." 

— Chapman. 

I STOOD upon the Mountain which o'er 

looks 
The narrow seas, whose rapid interval 
Tarts Afric from green Europe, when tliej^j^^'-^^;;^'--*- ^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

^^■^ ' thronged, 



Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and above 

)lenched with 



Do utter forth a subterranean voice, 



The silent heavens were 

faery light. 
Uncertain whether faery light or cloud. 
Flowing Southward, and the chasms 

deep, deep Iilue 
.Slumber'd unfathomable and the stars U^^^,,,^ ],er head the weak lamp dips and 

Were flooded over with clear glory and; _ , , 

pale 



Among the inner columns far retired 
'At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
r Before the awful genius of the place 
j Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, 
while 



the 



winks 
Unto the fearful summoning without : 



I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond, ^ ^^^thj^g, ^^e ever clasps the marble knees. 
1 here where the Giant of old Time inhx d.^^^^^^^ j,^^ ^^^^ j^^^^ ^^.j^,^ ^^^^.^^ ^^^j ^j, 

The limits of his prowess, pillars high i ^^^ 

Lrmg time erased from earth: even as the ,^,,^^^^ eyes which wear no light but that 

When weary of ^yild inroad buildeth up ,^^^ phlnt'ilsy informs them. 
Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty 

waves. j Where are ye. 

And much I mused on legends quaint andj jj^j.^^gg ^f ^^^ Western wave, fair Islands 



ok 



W 



1 whilonie won the hearts of all on 

earth 
lowaid their brightness, ev'n as flame 

draws air; 
But had their being in t'.u heart of man 
As air is th' life of flame: and t'uou wert 

then 
A center'd glory-circled memory, 
Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves 



green? 
Where are your moonlight halls, your ced- 

arn glooms. 
The blossoming abysses of your hills? 
Your flowering capes, and your gold-sand- 
ed bays 
Blown round with happy airs of odorous 

winds? 
Where are the infinite ways, which, seraph- 
trod, 
Wound through your great Elysian soli- 
* .\ Poem whicti obtained the Chancellor's! tudes 

Mcdil at the Cambrid^^o Commencement' ' • i • -i i i 

MDcccxxix. 15v A. Tennvson, of Trinity College, i Vv hose lowest deeps were,aswith visible love, 
34" ' ^529) 



530 



TIMBUCTOO. 



Filled with Divine effulgence, circuni fused, 
Flowing lietween the clear and polished 

stems. 
And ever circling round their emerald 

cones 
In coronals and glories, such as gird 
The unfading foreheads of the Saints in 

Heaven? 
For nothing visible, they say, had birth 
In that blest ground, but it was played 

about 
With its peculiar glory. Then I raised 
My voice and cried, "Wide Afric, doth 

thy Sun 
Lighthen. thy hills enfold a city as fair 
As thosevvhich starred the night o' the 

elder world? 
Oris the rumor of thy Timbuctoo" 
A dream as frail as those of ancient time?" 
A curve of whitening, flashing, ebbing 
light! 
A rustling of white wings! the bright de 

scent 
Of a young Seraph ! and he stood beside me 
There on the ridge, and looked into my face 
With his unutterable, shining orbs, ] 

So that with hasty motion I did veil 
My vision with both hands, and saw before 

me 
Such colored spots as dance athwart tlie eyes 
Of those that gaze upon the noonday Sun. 
Girt with a zone of Hashing gold beneath 
His breast, and compassed round about his 

brow 
With triple arch of ever-changing bows, 
And circled with the glory of living light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 
" () child of man, why muse you here 
alone 
Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of old 
Which filled the earth with passing loveli- 
ness, 
Which flung strange music on the howling 

winds, 
And odors rapt from remote Paradise? 
Thy sense is clogged with dull mortality: 
Open thine eyes and see." 

I looked, but not 
Upon his face, for it was wonderful 
With its exceeding brightness, and the light 



W^ith supernatural excitation bound. 
Within me, and my meutal eye grew large 
With such a vast circumference of thought, 
That in my vanity I seemed to stand 
Uyon the oulwaid verge and bound alone 
Of full beatiude. Each failing sense, 
As with a momentary flash of light, 
Grevtf thrillingly distinct and keen. I saw 
The smallest grain that dabbled the daik 

earth, 
The indistinctess atom in deep air, 
The Moon's white cities, and the opal 

width 
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver 

heights 
Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud, 
And tlie unsounded, undescended depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderfu' 
Distinct and vivid with sharp points of 

light, 
Blaze within blaze, an iinimagined depth 
And harmony of planet-girded s«ns 
And moon-encircled planets, wheel in wheel, 
Arched the wan sapphire. >.ay — the hum 

of men, 
Or other things talking in unknown tongues, 
And notes of busy life in distant worlds 
Beat like a far wave cm my anxious ear. 
A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling 
thoughts, 
Involving and embracing each with each, 
Rapid as fire, inextricably linked, 
Expanding momently with every sight 
And sound which struck the palpitating 

sense. 
The issue of strong impulse, hurried through 
The riven rapt brain; as when in some 

large lake 
From pressure of descendenl crags, which 

lapse 
Disjointed, crumbling irom their parent 

slope 
At slender interval, the level calm 
Is ridged witli restless and increasing 

spheres 
Which break upon each other, each 

th' effect 
Of separate impulse, but more fleet and 



strong 

»uii uhi:x>.ccw...g .,wg.,...-o.,, « ^... Than its precursor, till the eye in vain 

C)f the cTieat Angel Mind which lookedl Amid the wild unrest of swimming shade 

from out I Dappled with hollow and alternate rise 

The starry glowing of his restless eyes. |Of interpenetrated arc, would scan 
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit j Definite round. 



TIMBUCTOO. 



53 '■ 



I know not if I shape 
These things with accurate similitude 
From visible objects, for but dimly now, 
Less vivid than a half- forgotten dream, 
The memory of that mental excellence 
Comes o'er me, and it may be I entwine 
The indecision of my present mind 
With its past clearness, yet it seems to me 
As even then the torrent of quick thought 
Absorbed me from the nature of itself 
With its own fleetness. Where is he, that 

borne 
Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream, 
Could link his shallop to the fleeting edge, 
And muse midway with philosophic calm 
Upon the wondrous laws which regulate 
The fierceness of the bounding element? 
My thoughts, which long had grovelled in 
the slime 
Of this dull world, like dusky worms which 

house 
Beneath unshaken waters, but at once 
Upon some earth-awakening day of Spring 
Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft 
Winnow the purple, bearing on both sides 
Double display of starlit wings, which burn 
Fan -like and fibred with intensest bloom; 
Even so my thoughts, erewhile so low, now 

felt 
Unutterable buoyancy and strength 
To bear them upward through the trackless 

fields 
Of undefined existence far and free. 

Then first within the South methought I 
saw 
A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 
Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome. 
Illimitable range of battlement 
On battlement, and the Imperial height 1 
Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind j 

In diamond light up spring the dazzling 

peaks 
Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each aloft 
Upon his narrowed eminence bore globes 
Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances 
Of either, showering circular abyss 
Of radiance. But the glory of the place 
Stood out a pillared front of burnished gold, 
Interminably high, if gold it were 
Or metal more ethereal, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where 

no gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eye could scan 



Through length of porch and valve and 

boundless hall. 
Part of a throne of fiery llame, wlierefrom 
The snowy skirting cjf a garment hung, 
And glimpse of multitude of mullitudes 
That ministered around it — if I saw 
These things distinctly, for my iiunian 

brain 
Staggered beneath the vision, and thick night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. 

With ministering hantl he raised me up: 
Then with a mournful and incffaljle smile. 
Which but to look on for a moment filled 
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, 
In accents of majestic melody, 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still night 
Mingled with floating music, thus he spake: 
"There is no mightier Spirit than I to 
sway 
The heart of man; and leach him to at- 
tain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable; 
And step by step to scale that mighty stair 
Whose landing-place is wrapt about with 

clouds 
Of ghjry of heaven.* With earliest light of 

Spring 
And in the glow of sallow Summerlide, 
And in red Autumn when the winds are 

wild 
With gambols, and when fidl-voiced Win- 
ter roofs 
The headland with inviolate white snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand ways. 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears 
With harmonies of wind aiid wave and 

wood, 
— Of winds which tell of waters and of 

waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the wind — 
And win him unto me: and few there be 
So gross of heart who have not felt and 

known 
A higher than they see: they with dim eyes 
Behold me darkling. Lo! I have given thee 
To understand my presence, and to feel 
My fullness: I have filled thy lips with 

power. 
I have raised thee nigher to the spheres of 

heaven, 
Man's first, last home: and thou with rav- 
ished sense 
Listenest the lordly music flowing from 



♦ " Be ye perfect, even as your Kalherin heaven 
IS perfect !" 



53^ 



TIMBUCTOO. 



Ihe illimilable years. 1 am the Spirit, | 
The permeating life which courseth through! 
All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins i 

Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspread| 
With growth of shadowing leaf and clus-| 

ters rare, 
Reacheth to every corner under heaven, i 
Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth; | 

So that men's hopes and fears take refuge inj 
The fragrance of its complicated glooms, 
And cool impleachcd twilights. Child of man, 
Seesttheuyon river, whose translucent wave. 
Forth issuing from the darkness, windeth 

through 
The argent streets o' the city, imaging 
The soft inversion of her tremulous domes. 
Her gardens Irequent with the stately palm. 
Her pagods hung with music of sweet bells, 
Her obelisks of ranged chrysolite, 
Minarets and towers.^ Lo! how he passeth 

by, 
Andgulphs himself in sands, as not enduring 



To carry through the world those vaves, 

which bore 
The reflex of my city in their depths. 
Uh city: oh latest throne I where I was 

raised 
To he a mystery of loveliness 
Unto ail eyes, the time is well- nigh come 
When I must render up this glorious home 
To keen Discovery; soon yon brilliant tow- 
ers 
Shall darken with the waving of her wand; 
Darken and shrink and shiver into huts. 
Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand. 
Low-built, mud-walled, barbarian settle- 
ments. 
How changed from this fair city!" 

Thus far the Spirit: 
Then parted heavenward on the wing: and I 
Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 
Had fallen from the night, and all was 
dark; 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1830, 

AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS. 



ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad 

valley dimmed in the gloaming: 
Thro' the black-stemmed pines only the far 

river shines. 
Creeping through the blossomy rushes and 

bowers of rose-blowing bushes, 
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and 

fall. 
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grass 

hopper caroieth clearly; 
Deeply the turtle cooes; shrilly the owlet 

halloos; 
Winds creep: dews fall chilly: in her first 

sleep earth breathes stilly: 
Over the pools in the burn w^attr-gnats mur- 
mur and ipourn. 
Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering 

water outfloweth : 
Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to 

the dark hyaline. 
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the 

two peaks; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath 

in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus 

all things bringeth, 
Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my 

love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning and even; she cometh 

not morning or even. 
False-eyed Ilesper, unkind, where is my 

sweet Rosalind? 



THE "HOW" AND THE '-WHY." 



I AM any man's suitor, 
If any will be my tutor: 
Some say this life is jjleasant. 
Some think it spcedeth fast, 



In time there is no present, 

In eternity no future. 
In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, 
Who will riddle me the hoio and the why? 

The bulrush nods unto its brother. 
The wheatears whisper to each other: 
What is it they say? what do they there? 
Why two and two make four? why round is 

not square? 
Why the rock stands still, and the ligiit 

clouds fly? 
WHiy the heavy oak groans and the wdiite 

willows sigh? 
Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? 
Whether we wake, or whether we sleep? 
Whether we sleep, or whether we die? 
How you are you? why I ami? 
Who will riddle me the how and the -why ? 

The WH)rld is somewhat; it goes on some- 
how : 

But what is the meaning of then and no-ii) ^ 
I feel there is something; but how and 
what? 

I know there is somewhat: Init what and 
why? 

I cannot tell if that somewhat be 1. 



The litlle bird pipeth "Why? why?" 
In the summer woods when the sun falls 

low, 
And the great bird sits on the opposite 

bough. 
And stares in his face, and .shouts " lluw? 

how?" 
And the black owl scuds down the melh)w 

twilight. 
And chants " How? Iidw?" the whole of the 

night. 

(533) 



534 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 



Why the life goes when the blood is spilt? 

What the life is? where the soul may lie? 
Why a church is with a steeple built: 
And a house with a chimney-pot? 
Who will riddle me the how and the what? 

Who will riddle me the what and the 
why? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NO' 
IN UNITY WITH ITSELF. 

Oh God! my God! have mercy now. 

I faint, I fall. Men say that thou 

Didst die for me, for such as 7)ie, 

Patient of ill, and death, and scorn. 

And that my sin was as a thorn 

Among the thorns that girt thy brow. 

Wounding thy soul. — That even now. 

In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign! and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer noon 

While I do pray to thee alone. 

Think my belief would stronger grow! 

Is not my human pride brought low? 

The boastings of my spirit still? 

The joy I had in my free will 

All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown 

And what is left to me, but thou, 

And faith in thee? Men pass me by: 

Christians with happy countenances — 

And children all seem full of thee! 

And women smile with saintlike glances 

Like thine own mother's when she bowed 

Above thee, on that happy morn 

When angels spake to men aloud. 

And thou and peace to earth were born. 

Goodwill to me as well as all — 

— I one of them : my brothers they : 

Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 

And confidence, day after day; 
And trust and hope till things should cease, 

And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith! 
To hold a common scorn of death! 
And at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound and eat 
Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear. 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! 
A grief not uninformed, and dull, 
Hearted with hope, of hope as full 



As is the blood with life, or night 
And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. 
To stand beside a grave, and see 
The red small atoms wherewith we 
Are built, and smile in calm, and say — 
" These little motes and grains shall be 
Clothed on with immortality 
More glorious than the noon of day. 
All that is pass'd into the flowers. 
And into beasts and other men. 
And all the Norland whirlwind showers 
From open vaults, and all the sea 
O'erwashes with sharp salts, again 
Shall fleet together all and be 
Indued with immortality." 

Thrice happy state again to be 

The trustful infant on the knee ! 

Who lets his waxen fingers play 

About his mother's neck, and knows 

Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 

They comfort him by night and day, 

They light his little life alway; 

He hath no thought of coming woes; 

He hath no care of life or death, 

Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 

Because the Spirit of happiness 

And perfect rest so inward is; 

And loveth so his innocent heart. 

Her temple and her place of birth. 

Where she would ever wish to dwell. 

Life of the fountain there, beneath 

Its salient springs, and far apart. 

Haling to wander out on earth. 

Or breathe into the hollow air. 

Whose chillness would make visible. 

Her subtil, warm, and golden breath. 

Which, mixing with the infant's blood, 

Fullfills him with beatitude. 

Oh ! sure it is a special care 

Of God, to fortify from doubt, 

To arm in proof, and guard about 

With triple mailed trust, and clear 

Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld 

In thine, I listened to thy vows, 

For me outpoured in holiest prayer — 

For me unworthy! — and beheld 

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 

Tile beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining through! 

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry 

From roots which strike so deep? why dare 



surras ED c o.vfess/ ox. 



535 



Paths in the desert? Could not I 

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, 

To th' earth— until the ice would melt 

Here, and I feel as thou hast fell? 

What Devil had the heart to scathe 

Flowers thou hadst reared — to brush the dew 

From thine own lily, when ihy grave 

Was deep, my mother, in the clay? 

My.self? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 

So little love for thee? But why 

Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray 

To one who heeds not, who can save 

But will not? Great in faith, and strong 

Against the grief of circumstance 

Wert thou, and yet unheard? What if 

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 

Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff, 

Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 

Unto the death, not sunk! I know 

A.I matins and at evensong, 

That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 

In deep and daily prayers would'st strive 

To reconcile me with thy God. 

\lbeit, my hope is gray, arid cold 

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 

" Bring this lamb back into thy fold. 

My Lord, if so it be thy will." 

Would'st tell me I must brook the rod. 

And chastisement of human pride; 

That pride, the sin of devils, stood 

Betwixt me and the light of God! 

That hitherto I had defied. 

And had rejected God — that'Grace 

Would drojj from his o'erbrimming love. 

As manna on my wilderness. 

If I would pray — that God would move 

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, 

Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 

W'ould issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas ! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Or sojourn in me. I am void. 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 
Why not believe then? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, wheie man 
Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broadimljased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain torn? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland meer? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 



Draw down into his vexc'd pools 

All that blue heaven which hues and paves 

The other? I am too lurlurn. 

Too shaken: my own weakness fools 

My judgment, and my spirit whirls. 

Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 

" Vet," said I, in my morn of youth, 

The unsunned freshness of my strength, 

When I went forth in quest of truth, 

"It is man's privilege to doubt. 

If so be that from doubt at length. 

Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, 

An image with profulgent brows, 

And perfect limbs, as from the storm 

Of running fires and fluid range 

Of lawless airs at last stood out 

This excellence and solid form 

Of constant beauty. For the Ox 

Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 

The hornL'd valleys all about, 

And hollows of the fringed hills 

In summerheats, with placid lows 

Unfearing, till 'his own blood flows 

About his hoof. And in the flocks 

The lamb rejoiceth in the year. 

And raceth freely with his fere. 

And answers to his mother's calls 

From the flowered furrow. In a time. 

Of which he wots not, run short pains 

Through his warm heart; and then, fviiii 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 
A shadow; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb. 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall men live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Tiving, but that he shall live on? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life anil death, and things that seem, 
And things that be, and analyze 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be?" Ay me! I fear 
All may not doubt, but every where 
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unremembered, and thy love 
Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 



SOiVG. 



Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

Oh weary life! oh weary death! 
Oh spirit and heart made desolate! 
Oh damn d vacillating state! 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

His eyes in eclipse, 
Palecold his lips, 
The light of his hopes unfed, 
Mute his tongue, 
His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed, 
Backward drooping his graceful head, 
Love is dead: 
His last arrow is sped; 
He hath not another dart; 
Go — carry him to his dark deathbed; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 
Love is dead. 

Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn, 

And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles 
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? 
Shall hollowhearted apathy. 
The cruellest form of perfect sc(,)rn, 

With languor of most hateful smiles, 
For ever write, 
In the withered light 
Of the tearless eye. 
An epitaph that all may spy? 
No! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the sh twers shall not fall, 

Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all 

Her light shall into darkness change; 
For her the green grass shall not spring, 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing 

Till Love have his full revenge. 



SONG. 



I. 



TO 



Sainted Juliet! dearest name! 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juliet, 
I love thee, and live; and yet 
Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame 
'Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 

Offered to gods upon an altar-throne; 
My heart is lighted at thine eyes, 
Changed into fire, and blown about with 
sighs. 



r THE glooming light 

Of middle night 

So cold and white, 
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave, 

Beside her are laid 

Her mattock and spade, 
For she hath half delved her own deep 
grave. 

Alone she is there: 
The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls 
loose : 

Her shoulders are bare; 
Her tears are mixed with the beaded dews. 



Death standeth by; 

She will not die; 

With glazed eye 
She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep; 

Ever alone 

She maketh her moan: 
She cannot speak: she can only weep. 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by flake, 

The dull wave mourns down the slope, 
rhe world will not change, and her heart 
will not break. 



SONG. 



The lintwhite and the throstlecock 
Have voices sweet and clear; 
All in the bloomed May. 
They from the blosmy brere 
Call to the fleeting year, 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear. 



Fair year, fair year, thy children call, 
But thou art deaf as death ; 

All in the bloomed May. 
When thy light perisheth 
That from thee issueth, 
Our life evanisheth: 

Oh! stay. 
Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb 
Should have so sweet a breath! 




All in the liloomed May. 
They come from the blosmy hrere 
Call to the fleeting year. 



Song, Page 536, 



HERO 7 LEANDER. 



537 



Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king, 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling, 
And longer hear us sing; 
Though thou art fleet of wing, 

Yet stay. 
Alas! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering! 



Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne,* 

All in the bloomed May. 
We pri'thee pass not on; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 

Oh! stay. 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres, 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



SONG. 



Every day hath its night: 

Every night its morn: 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours are borne; 
Ah' welaway! 
Seasons flower and fade; 
Golden calm and storm 
]Slingle day by day. 
There is no bright form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah 1 welaway! 



When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein. 
We're so kin to earth, 
Pleasaunce fathers pain— 
Ah! welaway! 
Madness laughelh loud: 
Laughter bringeth tears: 
Eyes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud. 
Ah! welaway! 



All is change, woe or weal; 

Joy is Sorrow's brother; 

Grief and gladness steal 

Symbols of each other; 

Ah! welaway! 

Larks in heaven's cope 

Sing: the culvers mourn 

All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah! welaway! 



* "His critpe hair in ringis was yronne. 
Chaucer, KnighVs Tale 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

Oh go not yet, my love. 

The night is dark and vast; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven 
above. 

And the waves climb high and fast. 
Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again, 

Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
Oh kiss me ere we part; 
Grow closer to my heart. 
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom 
of the main. 
O joy! O bliss of blisses! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me with thy kisses, 

My eyelids and my brow. 
Mark how the wild rain hisses, 

And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 

So gladly doth it stir; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. 

I have bathed thee with the pleasant 
myrrh ; 
Thy locks are dripping balm; 
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night, 

I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Will be both blue and calm; 
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss 

as soft as mine. 

No Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea, 

And when thou art dead, Leander, 
My soul must follow thee! 

Oh go not yet, my love. 

Thy voice is sweet and low; 

The deep salt wave breaks in above 



538 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



Those marble steps below. 
The turrestairs are wet 

That lead into the sea, 
Leander! go not yet. 
The pleasant stars have set: 
Oh! go not, go not yet, 

Or I will follow thee. 



THE MYSTIC. 

Angels have talked with him and showed 

him thrones : 
Ve know him not; he was not one of ye. 
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn 
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye. 
The still serene abstraction; he hath felt 
The vanities of after and before; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse lives, 
The linked woes of many a fiery change 
Had purified, and chastened, and made free. 
Always there stood before him, night and 

day, 
Of wayward varycolored circumstance 
The imperishable presences serene, 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound. 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Fourfaced to four corners of the sky: 
And yet again, three siiadows, fronting one, 
One forward, one respectant, three but one; 
And yet again, again and evermore. 
For the two first were not, but only seemed. 
One shadow in the midst of a great light. 
One reflex from eternity on time, 
One mighty countenance of perfect calm, 
Awful with most invariable eyes. 
For him, the silent congregated hours. 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, lieneath 
Severe and youthful brows, with shining eyes 
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light 
Ofearliest youth pierced through and through 

with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud 
Which droops lowhung on either gate of life, 
Both birth and death; he in the centre fi.xt. 
Saw far on each side through the grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely distances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hath heard 
Time flowing in the middle of the night. 
And all things creeping to a day of doom. 
How could ye know him? Ye were yet within 
The narrower circle : he had wellnigh reached 



The last, which with a region of white flam: 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upblnning, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 

Voice of the summerwind, 

Joy of the sunimerplain. 

Life of the summerhours, 

Carol clearly, bound along. • 

No Tithon thou as poets feign 

(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind,) 

i5ut an insect lithe and strong, 

Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 

Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel, 

^'aulting on thine airy feet. 
Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrior .in youth and 
strength complete; 

Armed cap-a-pie 
Full fair to see; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreading loss, 
A gallant cavalier. 
Sans pcur et satis rcprochc. 
In sunlight and in shadow, 
The Bayard of the meadow. 

II. 

I would dwell with thee. 

Merry grasshopper. 
Thou are so glad and free. 

And as light as air; 
Thou hast no sorrow or tears. 
Thou hast no compt of years, 
No withered immortality, 
But a short youth sunny and free 
Carol clearly, bound along, 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A summer of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 
What hast thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel. 

In thy heat of summer pride. 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flowered grasses, 
Tiial brush thee with their silken tresses? 
What hast tliou to do with evil. 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms, 
Ever leaping, ever singing. 

Lighting on the golden blooms? 



LOVE AND SORROW 



539 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND 
FORGETFULNESS. 

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb. 

Love lafeoured honey busily. 

I was the hive, and Love the bee, 

My heart the honeycomb. 

One very dark and cliilly night 

Pride came beneath and held a lij^hl. 

The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell; 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell 
Did change them into gall; 
And Memory, though fed by Pride, 
Did wax so thin on gall. 
Awhile she scarcely lived at all, 
What marvel that she died? 



CHORUS 

N AN UXrUBLISHEIJ L>R.\MA, WRITTEN 
VERY EARLY. 

The varied earth, the moving heaven. 

The rapid waste of roving sea, 
The fountain pregnant mountains riven 

To shapes of wildest anarchy, 
By secret Hre and midnight storms 

That wander round their windy cones. 
The subtle life, the countless forms 

Of living things, the wondrous tones 
Of man and beast, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 

The day, the diamonded night. 

The echo, feeble child of sound. 
The heavy thunder's griding might, 

The herald lightning's starry bound. 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom. 

The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom. 

The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 

Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire. 
The burning belts, the mighty rings. 

The murm'rous planets' rolling choir, 
The globefilled arch that, cleaving air. 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps. 
The lawless comets as they glare. 

And thunder through the sapphire deeps 
In wayward strength, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



LOST HOPE. 

You cast to ground the hope which once 

was mine; 
But did the while your harsh decree deplore. 
Embalming with sweet tears the vacant 

shrine. 
My heart, where Hope had been and was 

no more. 

So on an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew; 
But winds from heaven shook the acorn out. 
And filled the cup with dew. 



THE TEARS OF HEAVEN. 

Heaven weeps above the earth all night 

till morn, 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to weep, 
Because the earth hath made her state for- 
lorn 
AVith self-wrought evil of unnumbered years, 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back her 

tears 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep. 
And showering down the glory of lightsome 

day, 
Smil(*s on the earth's worn brow t^ win hsr 
if she may. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 

O Maiden, fresher than the first green leaf 
With which the fearful springtide flecks the 

lea, 
Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee 
That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief 
Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 
Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystal- 
line: 
Yet on both sides at once thou canst not 

shine: 
Thine is the bright side of my heart, and 

thine 
My heart's day, but the shadow of my heart, 
Issue of its own substance, my heart's night 
Thou canst not lighten even with thy light, 
Allpowerful in beauty as thou art. 
Almeida, if my heart were substanceless, 
Then might thy rays pass through to the 

other side. 
So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide, 



540 



SONNET. 



But lose themselves in utter emptiness, 
iialf-lighl, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep; 
They never learned to love who never knew 
to weep. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING. 

O THOU whose fringed lids I gaze upon, 
Through whose dim brain the winged dreams 

are borne. 
Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 
In honor of the silver-flecked morn, 
Long hath the white wave of the virgin light 
Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. 
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night. 
Though long ago listening the i)oisid lark, 
With eyes dropt downward through the blue 

serene. 
Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET. 

Could I outwear my present state of woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring 
Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow 
The wan dark coil of faded suffering — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers, 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flow- 
ers 
And watered valleys where the young birds 

sing; 
Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewing, 
I straightly would command the tears to 

creep 
From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep; 
Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing: 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen rain 
From my cold eyes, and melted it again. 



SONNET. 

Though Night hath climbed her peak of 

highest noon, 
And bitter blasts the screaming autumn 

whirl. 
All night through archways of the bridged 

pearl. 
And portals of pure silver, walks the moon: 
Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony, 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, 
And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, 
Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. 



Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and 

ruth 
That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath 

won thee; 
So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of 

truth ; 
So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; 
So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, 
An honorable eld shall come upon thee. 



SONNET. 

Shall the hag Evil die with child of 

Good, 
Or propagate again her loathed kind, 
Thronging thi cells of the diseased mind, - 
Hateful with banging cheeks, a withered 

brood, 
Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? 
Oh I that the wind which bloweth cold or heat 
Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat 
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude 
Of middle space confound them, and blow 

back 
Their wild cries down their cavern throats, 

and slake 
With pjinls of blastborne hail their heated 

eyne! 
So their wan limbs no more might come 

between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in the night, 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light. 



SONNET. 

The pallid thunderstrickcn sigh for gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float. 
And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, 
Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they 

strain 
Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that 

robe 
The understream. The wise,ct)uld he behold 
Cathedralled caverns of thickribbcd gold 
And branching silvers of the central globe, 
Would marvel from so beautiful a sight 
How scorn and ruin, pain and hate, could 

flow : 
But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; 
Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent 

light 
Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips, 
And skins the color from her trembling lips. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG. 



541 



LOVE. 
I. 



To wander down his sable-sheeny sides, 
Like light on troubled waters: from within 
_ r .1 r , u ^1 ■^"°" '^'^ rusheth forth with merry din, 

Thou, from the first, unborn undying love, And in him light and joy and strength 
Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, abides- 

Before the face of God didst breathe and ^nd from his'brows a crown of living light 



move, 
Though night and pain and ruin and death 

reign here. 
Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere. 
The very throne of the eternal God: 
Passing through thee the edicts of his fear 
Are mellowed into music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they uprend the 

sea, 
Even from its central deeps; thine empeiy 
Is over all; thou wilt not brook eclipse; 
Thou goest and returnest to His lips 
Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. 
II. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old age 
Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee 
Athwart the veils of evils which infold thee. 
We beat upon our aching hearts in rage: 
We cry for thee; we deem the world thy 

tomb. 
As dwellers in lone planets look upon 
The mighty disk of their majestic sun. 
Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling 

gloom, 
Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee.| 
Come, thou of many crowns, whiterobed 

love, 
Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore 

thee: 
' Heaven crieth after thee; earth waiteth for 

thee; 
Breathe on thy winged throne, and it shall 

move 
In music and in light o'er land and sea 
III. 

And now — methinks I gaze upon thee now, 
As on a serpent in his agonies 
Awestricken Indians; what time laid low 
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he 

lies. 
When the new year warmbreathed on the 

Earth, 
Waiting to light him with her purple skies. 
Calls to him by the fountain fo uprise. 
Already with the pangs of a new birth 
Strain the hot spheres of his convulsed eyes, 
And in his writhings awful hues begin 



Looks through the thickstemmed woods by 
day and night. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG. 

Who fears to die? Who fears to die? 
Is there any here who fears to die? 
He shall find what he fears; and none shall 
grieve 
For the man who fears to die: 
But the withering scorn of the many shall 
cleave 
To the man who fears to die. 

Chorus.— Shout for England! 
Mo! for England! 
George for England! 
Merry England! 
England for aye! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn. 

He shall eat the bread of common scorn ; 
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, 

Shall be steejDed in his own salt tear: 
Far better, far better he never were born 

Than to shame merry England here. 
Chorus.— Shout for England! etc. 

There staiukth our ancient enemy; 

Hark ! he shouteth — the ancient enemy! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise; 

They stream like fire in the skies; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 
Chorus.— Shout for England! etc. 

Come along! we alone of the earth are 

free ; 
The child in our cradles is bolder than 

he: 
For where is the heart and strength of slaves? 

Oh! where is the strength of slaves? 
He is weak! we are strong: he a slave, we 

are free! 
Come along! we will dig their gravesj- 

Chorus. — Shout for England! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy, 
Will he dare to battle with the free? 
Spur along! spur amain! charge to the 
fight! 



542 



Ui piovTSi. 



Charge! charge to the fight! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high! 
Shout for God and our right. 

Chorus. — Shout for England! etc. 

NATIONAL SONG. 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no hearts like English hearts, 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 

So tall and bold as they be. 

Chorus. — 

For the French the Pope may shrive 

'em, 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em 
Ae for the French, God speed 'em, 

Unto their hearts' desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 
Through the water and the fire. 

Full Chorus. — Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea. 
We are the sons of free- 
dom, 
We are free. 

There is no land like England, 

Where'er the light of clay be; 
There are no wives like English wives. 

So fair and chaste as they be; 
There is no land like England, 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no maids like English maids, 

.So beautiful as they be. 

Chorus.— For the French, etc. 

DUALLSMS. 

Two bees within a crystal flowerbell rock'd, 
Hum a lovelay to the westvvind at noon 
tide. 
Both alike, they buzz together. 
Both alike, they hum together, 
Through and through the flowered 
heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave un 
shocked 

Lays itself calm and wide. 
Over a stream two birds of glancing 
feather 



Do woo each other carolling together. 
Both alike they glide together. 

Side by side; 
Both alike they sing together; 
Arching blue-glossed nec~ks beneath the 
purple weather. 

? 

Two children lovelier than Love adown the 

lea are singing. 
As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing: 
Both in blossomwhite silk are 
frocked 
Like, unlike, they roam together. 
Under a summervault of golden weather; 
Like, unlike, they sing together, 
Side by side, 
MidMay's darling golden locked. 
Summer's tanling diamond eyed. 



WE ARE FREE. 

The winds, as at their hour of birth, 
Leaning upon the winged sea, 
Breathed low around the rolling earth 

W'ith mellow preludes, " We are free." 
The streams though many a lilied row 

Down-carolling to the crisped sea. 
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 

Atween the blossoms, " We are free." 



Oi ijiorTSi. 



All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true. 

All visions wild and strange. 
Man is the measure of all truth 

L^nto himself. All truth is change: 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream: 
For all things are as they seem to all. 

And all things flow like a stream. 

n. 
There is no rest, no calm, no pause. 

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 
Nor essence nor eternal laws: 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream that all these are. 

They are to me for that I dream; 
For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only true rela- 
tively to the flowing philosophers. 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1833. 



AND OMITTED IX LATER EDITIONS. 



SONNET. 

Mine be the strength of spirit fierce and 

free, 
Like some broad river rushing down ah)ne,i 
\Vith the selfsame impulse wherew ith he was [ 

thrown I 

From his loud fount upon the echoing lea : — 
Which with increasing might doth forwaid 

tlee 
By town and tower, and hill, and cape, and 

isle. 
And in the middle of the green salt sea | 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. 
Mine be the Power which ever to its sway 
Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 
May into uncongenial spirits flow; 
Even as the great dulf-stream of Florida 
Floats far away into the Northern seas 
The lavish growths of southern Mexico. 



TO 



All good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways; 

I have not lacked thy mild reprool". 
Nor golden largess of thy praise, 
But life is full of weary days. 



.Shake hands, my friend, across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more: I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When, in the darkness over me, 

The four-handed mole shall scrape. 
Plant thou no dusky cypress tree. 



Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape. 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 



And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery gray, 

And rugged barks begin to bud, 

And through damp holts, newflushed 

with May, 
King sudden laughters of the jay; 



Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay the darnels grow . 

Come only when the days are still, 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow, 



If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: 

Then cease, my friend, a little while. 
That I may hear the throstle sing 
His bridal song, the boast of spring. 



Sweet as the noise in parched plains 
Of bubbling wells thai fret the stones 

(If any sense in me remains). 

Thy words will be; thy cheerful tone? 
As welcome to my crumbling bones. 



BUONAPARTE. 

He thought to quell the stul>born liearts of 

oak, 
.Madman I — to chain with chains, and bind 

with bands 
That island queen that sways the floods and 

lands 

(543) 



544 



THE HESPERIDES. 



From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylig'nt woke 
When from licr wooden walls, lit by sure 

hands, 
With thunders, and with lightenings, and 

with smoke. 
Peal after peal, the British Battle broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsi- 

norc 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea, 
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden 

lires 
Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught him: late he learned humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled 

with briers. 



SONNETS. 



BEAUTY, passing beauty ! sweetest Sweet! 
How canst thou let me waste my youth 

in sighs? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine 
eyes. 
Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold 
My arms about thee — scarcely dare to 
speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, 
As with one kiss to touch thy blessed 
cheek. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control 
Within the thrilling brain could keep 

afloat 
The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, 
The bare word Kiss hath made my inner 
soul 
To tremble like a lutestring, eie the note 
Hath melted in the silence that it broke 



But were I loved, as I desire to be. 
What is there in the great sphere of the earth, 
And range of evil between death and birth, 
That I should fear,— if I were loved by thee? 
All the inner, all the outer world of pain 
Clear Love would ])ierce and cleave, if thou 

wert mine. 
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, 
Fresli-water springs come up through bitter 

brine. " 

'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-indiand 

with thee. 
To wait for death — mute — careless of all ill 



Apart upon a mountain, though the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. l 

THE HESPERHDES. 

Hesperus and his daughters three, 

That sing about the golden tree. — Comus. 

The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarred 

night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary jiromonotory of Soloe? 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the western Horn," 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale. 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore; but from a 

slope 

That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a Weight 
Of clifts, and zoned below with cedar shade, 
Came voices, like the voices in a dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer sea. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, the 

hallowed fruit. 
Guard it well, guard it warily, 
Singing airily. 

Standing about the charmed root. 
Round about all is mute, 
As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, . 
As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. 
Crocculiles in briny creeks 
Sleep and stir not: all is mute. 
If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, 
We shall lose eternal pleasure. 
Worth eternal want of rest. 
Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure 
Of the wisdom of the West. 
In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three 
(Let it not be preached abroad) made an 

awful mystery. 
For the blossom unto threefold music blow- 

eth; 
Evermore it is born anew; 
And the sap to threefold music floweth, 
From the root 
Drawn in the dark. 
Up to the fruit. 

Creeping under the fragrant bark. 
Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' and thro! 
Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily. 



/ 



ROSALIND. 



545 



Looking warily 

Every way, 

Guard the apple night and day, 

Lest one from the East come and take it away. 



Father Hesper, Father llesper, watch, watch 

ever and aye, 
Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 
Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight; 
Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and 

races die; 
Honor comes with mystery; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 
Number, tell them over and number 
How many the mystic fruit tree holds. 
Lest the redcombed dragon slumber 
Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the 

golden apple be stol'n away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with over- 

watchings night and day, 
Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled- 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, 

without stop. 
Lest his scaled eyelid drop. 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken. 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep, 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken. 
The world will be overwise, 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Bound about the golden tree. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, 

watch, night and day. 
Lest the old wound of the world be healed, 
The glory unsealed. 
The golden apple stolen away, 
And the ancient secret revealed. 
Look from west to east along: 
Father, old Himala weakens, Cancacus is 

bold and strong. 
^Yandering waters unto wandering waters 

call; 
Let them clash together, foam and fall. 
Out of watchings, out of wiles, 
Comes the Idiss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mantling night is drawn, 
(35) 



Purple fringed with even and dawn, 
Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth 
morn. 

IV. 

Every flower and every fiuit the redolent 

breath 
(3f this warm sea wind ripeneth, 
Arching the billow in his sleep; 
But the land wind wandereth. 
Broken by the highland-steep 
Two streams upon the violet deep; 
For the western sun and the western star, 
And the low west wind, breathing afar, 
The end of day and beginning of night 
Make the apple holy and bright; 
Holy and bright, round and full, bright and 

blest, 
Mellowed in a land of rest; 
Watch it warily day and night; 
All good things are in the west. 
Till mid noon the cool east light 
Is shut out by the tall hillbrow; 
But when the full faced sunset yellowly 
Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, 
The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, 
Goldenkernelled, golden cored. 
Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 
The world is wasted with fire and sword, 
But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. 
Five links, a golden chain are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Daughters three. 
Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 
The golden apple, the golden apple, the 

hallowed fruit, 
Guar^ it well, guard it warily. 
Watch it warily, 
Singing airily. 
Standing about the charmed root. 

ROSALIND. 



My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 

Whose free delight, from any height of 

rapid flight. 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eyed, wild -eyed falcon, whither. 
Careless both of wind and weather. 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye. 
Up or down the streaming wind? 



546 



KA TE. 



The quick lark's closest-carolled strains, 
The shadow rushing up the sea, 
Thelightning flash atvveen the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea, 
The leaping stream, the very wind, 
That will not stay, upon his way, 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains, 
Because you are the soul of joy. 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, 
And flashes oft' a thousand ways, 
Through lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawkeyes are keen and bright. 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me through with pointed light; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 
And your words are seeming-bitter. 
Sharp and few, but seeming bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 

III. 
Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind: 
Too long you keep the upper skies; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will; 
But we must hood your random eyes, 
That care not whom they kill, 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling fresh to view, 
Some red-heath flower in the dew, 
Touched with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, • 
And clip your wings, and make you love; 
When we have lured you from above. 
And that delight of frolic flight, by day or 

night. 
From north to south; 
Will bind you fast in silken cords. 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth. 

NOTE TO ROSALIND. 

Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to 
stand as a separate poem ; originally they made 
part of the te.xt, where they were manifestly 
improper. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 
Is one of those who know no strife 



Of inward woe or outward fear; 
To whom the slope and stream of Life, 
The life before, tlie life behind, 
In the ear, from far and near, 
Chimeth musically clear. 
My falconhearted Rosalind, 
Fullsailed before a vigorous wind, 
Is one of those who cannot weep 
For others' woes, but overleap 
All the petty shocks and fears 
That trouble life in early years. 
With a flash of frolic scorn 
And keen delight, that never falls 
Away from freshness, self-upborne 
With such gladness as, whenever ' 
The fresh-flushing springtime calls 
To the flooding waters cool. 
Young fishes, on an April morn, 
Up and down a rapid river, 
[Leap the little waterfalls 
Tliat sing into the pebbled pool. 
?vly happy falcon, Rosalind, 
Hath daring fancies of her own, 
Fresh as the dawn before the day. 
Fresh as the early sea-smell blown 
Through vineyards from an inland bay. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Because no shadow on you falls, 
Fiiu'cy ou hearts are tennisballs 
To play with, wanton Rosalind? 



SONG. 

Who can say 

Why to-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday? 

Who can tell 

Why to smell 

The violet, recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time? 

The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. 



KATE. 

I KNOW "her by her angry air, 

Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair, 

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 

'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she will: 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue. 

Clear as the twanging of a haip. 
Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 



DARIJXG A'OO.U. 



547 



Like a new bow, and bright and sharp 

As edges of the scymilar. 
Whence shall she take a lilting mate? 

For Kate no common love will feel; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 

Kate saith "The world is void of might." 
Kate saith "The men are gilded flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armJd knight, 
Far famed for wellwon enterprise, 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of ne.vv- wreathed emprise; 
For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight, 
And strongly strike to left and right. 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 

Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and fierce ; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 

SONNET 

WRITTEN 0I>' HEARING OF THE OUTBREAK 
OF THE POLISH INSURRECTION. 

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar 
The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold; 
Break through your iron shackles — fling them 

far. 
O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts cold; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
The growing murmurs of the Polish war! 
Now must your noble anger blaze out more 
Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, 
The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before — 
Than when Zamoyskysmote theTartar Khan ; 
Than eaidier, when on the Baltic shore 
Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. 



SONNET 

ON THE RESULT OF THE LATE RUSSIAN 
INVASION OF POLAND. 

How long,0 God, shall men be ridden down, 
And trampled under by the last and least 
Of men? The heartof Poland hath not ceased 
To quiver, though her sacred blood doth 

drown 
The fields; and out of every mouldering town 



Cries to Thee, lest brute power be increased. 
Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East 
Transgresses his ample bound to seme new 

crown: — 
Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall these 

things be? 
Mow long shall the icy-hearted Muscovite 
Oppress the region?" Us, O just and Good, 
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in 

three; 
Us, who stand Jtozc, when we should aid the 

right— 
A matter to be wept with tears of blood! 

SONNET. 

As when with downcast eyes we muse and 

brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far tack in a confused dream 
To slates cf mystical similitude; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and more. 
So that we say, "All this hath been before. 
All this /la^/i been, I know not when or 

where." 
So, friend, when f rst I looked upon your face. 
Or thought gave f.nswer,tach to each, so true, 
Opposed mirrors each relkctirg each — 
Altho' I knew not in what time or place, 
Methcught that I had often met with you, 
And each had lived in the other's mind and 

speech. 

O DARLING ROOM. 
I. 

O DARLING room, my heart's delight 
Dear room, the apple of my sight, 
With thy two couches soft and white, 
There is no room so exquisite. 
No little room so warm and bright, 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 

II. 
For I the Ncnnenwerlh have seen. 
And Oberwinter's vineyard's green. 
Musical Lurlei; and between 
The hills lo Bingen have I been, 
Bingen in Darmstadt, vhere the Rhene 
Curves toward Mentz a woody scene. 

III. 
Yet never did there meet my sight, 
In any town to left or right, 
A little room so exquisite, 



54'^ 



A FRAGMENT. 



With two such couches, soft and white; 
Not any room so warm and bright, 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

You did late review my lays, 
Crusty Christopher ; ■» 



You did mingle blame and praise. 

Rusty Christopher. 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame. 

Musty Christopher; 
I could 72oi forgive the praise, 

Fusty Christopher. 



FUGITIVE POEMS. 



NO MORE.* I 

sad No More ! O sweet A"o More !\ 
O strange No Alore ! 

By a mossed brookbank on a stone \ 

1 smelt a wildweed flower alone; 
There was a ringing in my ears. 
And both my eyes gushed out with 

tears, 
-Surely all pleasant things had gone before, 
Low-buried fathomed deep beneath with 

thee. No More! 



ANACREONTICS.* 
With roses musky-breathed, 
And drooping daffodilly 
And silver-leaved lily. 
And ivy darkly- wreathed, 
I wove a crown before her. 
For her I love so dearly, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora, laughing clearly 
A light and thrilling laugliter. 
About her forehead wound it. 
And loved me ever after. 



A FRAGMENT.* 
Where is the Giant of the Sun, which 

stood 
In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes, 
A perfect Idol with profulgent brows 
Far-sheening down the purple seas to those 
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the 

star 

♦These poems are Irom the Gem, a literary an- 
nual, for i8.^i. 



Nimed of the Dragon — and between whose 

limbs 
Of brassy vastness broadblown Argosies 
Drave into haven ? Yet endure unscathed 
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids 
Broadbased amid the fleeting sands, and 

sloped 
Into the slumbrous summer noon; but 

where. 
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 
Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscern- 

ed? 
Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the 

Nile? 

Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes, 
Awful Memnonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far off 
Seen by the highnecked camel on the verge 
Journeying southward ? Where are thy 

monuments 
Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim 
Over their crowned brethren On and Oph? 
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are 

kist 
With earliest rays, that from his mother's; 

eyes 
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed earsof niorni 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile 
By coluinned Thebes. Old Memphis hath 

gone down: 
The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in 

death 
They sleep with staring eyes and gildedlips, 
Wrapped round with spiced cerements in 

old grots 
Rockhewn and scaled for ever. 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE . POETS. 



549 



SONNET.* 

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh: 
Thy woes are birds of passage, transi- 
tory : 
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, 
In summer still a summer joy resunieth. 
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh, 
Like a lone cypress, through the twilight 
hoary, 
From an old garden where no flower 
bloometh, 
One cypress on an island promontory. 
But yet my lonely spirit follows thine. 
As round the rolling earth night folkiw 
day; _ 
But yet thy lights on my horizon shine 

Into my night, when thou art far away 
I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright, 
^Vhen we two meet there's never perfect 
light. 

SONNET.* 

Check every outflash, every ruder sally 
Of thought and speech; speak low and 
give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild -minded melancholy; 
This is the place. Through yonder poplar 
valley 
Below the blue green river windeth slow- 

But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The crisptd waters whisper musically. 
And all the haunted place is dark and 
holy. 
The nightingale, with long and low pream- 
ble, 
Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn 

larches. 
And in and out the woodbine's flowery 
arches 
The summer midges wove their wanton 
gambol 
And all the white-stemmed pinewood 

slept above — 
AVhen in this valley first I told my love. 

THE SKIPPING-ROPE. t 

Sure never yet was Antelope 

Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 



* Friendship's Offering, 183-). 

t Omitted iroin the edition of 18^2. 



How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! 

liow iairy-like you fly! 
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope — 

I hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dtarest, teach me how to hope, 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping-rope. 

And hang yourself thereby. 

THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS. t 

We know him out of Shakspcare's art, 
And those fine curses which he spoke; 

'l"he old Timon with his noble heart. 
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. 

So died the Old: here conies the New. 

Regard him: a familiar face: 
I thought we knew him: What, it's you. 

The padded man— that wears the slay.s — 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys 
With dandy pathos when you wrote! 

A Lion, you, that made a noise, 
And shook a mane en ^afillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too: 

You failed. Sir: therefore now you turn. 

To fall on those who are to you 
As Captain is to Subaltern. 

P)Ut men of long- enduring hopes, 

And careless what this hour may bring. 

Can pardon little would-be Poises 

And Brummels, when they try to sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And waive a little of his claim: 

To have the deep Poetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 

But you. Sir, yuu are hard to please: 
You never look but half content: 

Nor like a gentleman at ease. 

With moral breadth of temperament. 

And what with spites and what with fears, 

You cannot let a body be: 
It's always ringing in your eai's, 

" They call this man as good as 7m. " 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt? 



% Published in Punch, Feb., 1846, signed " Alci- 
biades." 



55« 



BRITONS Gi'Ak'D YOUR OlViW 



Yoit talk of tinsel? why, we see 

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks, 
You prate of Nature! you are he 

That spilt his life about the cliques. 

A TiMON you! Nay, nay, for shame: 

It looks too arrogant a jest — 
The fierce old man — to take his name, 

Vou bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



LITERARY SQUABBLES.* 

Ah, God! the petty fool^ of rhyme. 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 

And look'd at by the silent stars; — 

That hate each other for a song, 
And do their little best to bite, 

That pinch their brothers in the throng. 
And scratch the very dead for spite; — ; 

And strive to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot hear 

The sullen Lethe rolling down 

On them and theirs, and all things here; — 

! 

When one small touch of Charity 

Could lift them nearer Godlike State, 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those that cried Diana great. 

And / too talk, and lose the touch 

I talk of. Surely, after all, 
The noblest answer unto such 

Is kindly silence when they bawl. 



STANZAS, t 

What time I wasted youthful hours, 
One of the shining winged powers, 
Show'd me vast chtfs with crown of lowers. 

As towards the gracious light I bow'd, 
They seem'd high palaces and proud, 
Hid now and then with sliding cloud. 

He said, " The labor is not small: 
Yet winds the pathway free to all: — 
Take care thou dost not fear to fall!" 



* Punch. March 7, 184''', signed '• Alcibiades 
r "The Keepsake," 1S31. 



SONNET 

TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.:}: 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night we 

part. 

Full-handed thunders often have confest 

Thy power, well-used to move the public 

breast. 

We thank thee with one voice, and from 

the heart 
Farewell, Macready; since this night we 
part. 
Go, take thine honors home: rank with 

the best, 
Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and the 
rest. 
Who made a nation purer thro' their art. 
Thine is it, that our Drama did not die. 
Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children swarm 
to see. 
Farewell, Ivlacready; moral, grave, sub- 
lime. 
Our Shakspeare's bland and universal eye 
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred 
years, on thee. 

BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.|| . 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead; 
The world's last tempest darkens overhead. 

The Pope has bless'd him; 

The Church caress'd him; 
He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd 

gold. 
By lying priests the peasants' votes con- 
troll'd. . 

All freedom vanish'd, j 

The true men banish'd, \ 

He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

i 
Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all de- I 
sire — 1 

Peace-lovers we — but who can trust a liar? — 
Peace-lovers, haters 
Of shameless traitors. 
We hate not France, but this man's heart ot 
stone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

X Head by Mr. John Foster, at a dinner given to 
Mr. ISIacready, March i, 18=1, oa his retirement" 
liom the stage. 

II The Examiner 1852. 



HAA'DS ALL ROUND. 



55' 



We hate not France, but France has lost liti 

voice. 
'This man is France, the man they call hei 
choice. 

By tricks and spying, 
By craft and lying, 
And murder, was her freedom overthrown. 
Britons, guard your own. 

" Vive I'Empereur" may follow by and by, 
"God save the (^ueen" is here a truer cry. 

God save the Nation, 

The toleration, 
And the free speech that makes a Briton 
known. 

Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is captive 

France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his 

chance, 

Would unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting. 
Till we were left to fight for truth alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Call home your ships across Biscayan tides, 
To blow the battle from their oaken sides. 

Why waste they yonder 

Their idle thunder? 
Why stay they there to guard a foreign 
throne? 

Seamen, guard your own. 

We were the best of marksmen long ago. 
We won old battles with our strength, the 
bow. 

Now practice, yeomen, 

Like those bowmen. 
Till your balls fly as their shafts have flown. 

Yeomen, guard your own. 

His soldier-ridden Highness might inclme 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: 

Shall we stand idle, 

Nor seek to bridle 
His rude aggressions, till we stand alone? 

Make their cause your own. 

Should he land here, and for one hour pre- 
vail. 
There must no man go back to bear the tale ; 

No man to bear it — 

Swear it! we swear it! 
Although we fight the banded world alone, 

We swear to guard our own. 



HANDS ALL ROUND.* 

First drink a health, this solemn night, 

A healtli to England, every guest; 
That man's the best cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May Freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day: 
That man's the best Conservative 

Who lops the mouldered branch away. 

Hands all round! 
God the tyrant's hope confound! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

A health to Europe's honest men! 

Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! 
From wronged Poerio's noisome den. 

From ironed limbs and tortured nails! 
W^e curse the crimes of southern kings, 

The Russian whips and Austrian rods — 
We likewise have our evil things; 

Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. 

Yet hands all round! 
God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To Europe's better health we drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

What health to France, if France be she, 
Whom martial progress only chaims? 
Yet tell her— better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets? 
You fools, you'll want ihtm all again. 

Hands all round! 
God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee and we love thee best. 

For art thou not of British blood? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown. 

Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 

But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 



* The Examiner, 1852. 



552 



POEM TO 7'HE " NINETEENTH CENTURY: 



Hands all round! 
God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, 

When war against our freedom springs! 
O speak to Europe through your guns! 

They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with those 
That wish to keep their people fools; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes. 
She comprehends the race she rules. 

Hands all round! 
God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To our dear kinsman in the West, my 
friends, 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 



THE WAR. 

There is a sound of thunder afar. 

Storm in the South that darkens the day. 
Storm of battle and thunder of war. 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form! form! .Riflemen, form! 
Ready, l)e ready to meet the storm! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns! 

Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! 
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? 
How should a despot set men free? 
Form! form! Riflemen form! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 

Let your Reforms for a moment go. 

Look to your butts and take good aims, 
Better a rotten borough or so. 

Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! 
Form! form! Riflemen form! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form' 

Form, be ready to do or die! 

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's I 
True, that we have a faithful ally. 

But only the Devil knows what he means. 
Form! form! Riflemen form! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 



1865-1866. 
I STOOD in a tower in the wet. 
And New Year and Old Year met, 
And winds were roaring and blowing; 
And I said, " O years that meet in tears. 
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing! 
Science enough and exploring. 
Wanderers coming and going, 
Matter enough for deploring, 
But aught that is worth the knowing?" 
Seas at my feet were flowing, 
Waves on the shingle pouring. 
Old Year roaring and blowing. 
And New Year blowing and roaring. 



ON A SPITEFUL LETTER. 

Here, it is here — the close of the year, 

And with it a spiteful letter. 
My fame in song has done him much wrong, 

For himself has done much better. 

foolish bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine: 

I hear the roll of the ages. 

Tliis fall'n leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

My rhymes may have been the stronger. 
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot; 

I last but a moment longer. 

O faded leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

What room is here for a hater? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf, 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — isn't that your cry? 

And I shall live to see it. 
Well, if it be so, so it is, you know; 

And if it be so — so be it! 

O summer leaf, isn't life as brief? 

But this is the time of hollies. 
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen: 

I hate the spites and the follies. 



PREFATORY POEM TO «' THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY." 

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving to the 

skill 
( )f others their old craft seaworthy still. 
Have charter'd this; where, mindful of the 

past, 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 



55: 



Our true co-mates regather round the mast, 
C)f diverse tongue. Init with a common will 
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil 
And crocus, to put forth and brave the 

blast, 
For some, descending from the sacred peak 
Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued 

again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world about; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to 

seek 
If any golden harbor be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



MONTENEGRO. 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 
sails, 
They kept their faith, their freedom, on 

the height. 
Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
and night 
Against the Turk; whose inroad nowhere 
scales 



Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the 
swarm 

Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, 
Great Tsernagora! never since thine own 

Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 
the storm 

Has breathed a race of mightier moun- 
taineers. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 

Victor in poesy! Victor in romance! 
Cloud weaver of phantasmal hopes and 

fears ! 
French of the French and lord of human 
tears! 
Child lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels 

glance. 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would 
advance 
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy 

peers! 
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of 
years 
As yet unbroken! Stormy voice of France, 



Their headlong passes, but his footstep I Who dost not love our England, so they 

say; 

I know not! England, France, all men 
to be. 

Will make one people ere man's race be 
run ; 
And I, desiring that diviner day. 

Yield thee full thanks for thy full cour- 
tesy 

To younger England in the boy, my son. 



fails 
And red with blood the Crescent reels 

from fight 
Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone 
fiight 
By thousands down the crags and thro' the 

vales. 
O smallest among peoples! rough rock- 
throne 



THE WINDOW; 

OR, 

THE SONGS OF THE W R E N S. 

WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 

THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN. 



Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German 
fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting 
such old songs as " Orpheus with his Lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old 
style, a pUppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's 
instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in 
the dark shadow of these days; but tha music is now completed, and I am bound 
by my promise. A. Tennyson. 

December, 1870. 



I. 
ON THE HILL. 

The lights and shadows fly! 
Yonder it brightens and darkens down on 
the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye I 
O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window- 
pane, 
When the winds are up in the morning? 

- Clouds that are racing above. 
And winds and lights and shadows that can 
not be still. 
All running on one way to the home of my 
love. 

You are all running on, and I stand on the 
slope of the hill. 
And the winds are up in the morning! 

Follow, follow the chase! 

And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, 

ever on, on, on. 

O lights, are you flying over her sweet 

little face? 

And my heart is there before you are come 
and gone, 
When the winds are up in the morning! 

(554) 



Follow them down the slope! 
And I follow them down to the window-pane 
of my dear. 
And it brightens and darkens and biight- 
ens like my hope. 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens 
like my fear, 
And the winds are up in the morning. "' 



II. 
AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss. 
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine? 
Rose, rose and clematis, 
Drop me a flower, a flower to kiss. 
Kiss, kiss - And out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



XO .LYSU'E/^. 



555 



111. 
GONE. 



Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's! 
And you my vv'ien with a crown of gold, 

You my Queen of the wrens! 
You the Queen of the wrens - 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrerre, 

And all in a nest together. 



Gone! , 

Gone till the end of the year, 

Gone, and the light gone with her and left 

me in shadow here! 
Gone — flitted away. 
Taken the stars from the night and the sun 

from the day! j 

Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a| 

storm in the air! THE LETTER. 

Flown to the east or the west, flitted l| WHERE is another sweet as my sweet, 

know not where! Pine of the fine, and shy of the shy? 

Down in the south is a flash and a groan: jrj^e jimg hands, fine little feet- 



she is there! she is there! * 

IV. 

WINTER. 

The frost is here, 

And fuel is dear, • 

And woods are sear, 

And fires burn clear, 

And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue woodlouse, and the plump dor- 
mouse. 

And the bees are still'd, and the flies are 
kill'd, 

And you bite far into the heart of the 
• house, 

But not into mine. 



Bite, frost, bite! 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer, 

The fires are all the clearer, 

JNIy spring is all the nearer, 

You have bitten into the heart of the earth, 

But not into mine. 



SPRING. 



Dewy blue eye. 
Shall I write to her? shall I go? 

Ask her to marry me by and by; 
Somebody said that she'd say no; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye: 
Somebody said that she'd say no; 

Somebody knoWs that she'll say ay! 

VII. 

NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the 
rain ! 
Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? 
And never a glimpse of her window-pane ! 
And I may die, but the grass will grow. 
And the grass will grow when I am gone, 
And the wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 



Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds' song and birds' love. 

And you with gold for hair! 
Birds' song and birds' love. 

Passing with the weather. 
Men's song and men's love. 

To love once and for ever. 



Ay is the song of the wedded spheres. 
No is trouble and cloud and storm; 

Ay is life for a hundred years. 

No will push me down to the worm; 

And when I am there and dead and gone, 

The wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

The wind and tha wet, the wind and the 
wet ! 

Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet! 

Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? 



556 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 



Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may 
go on. 



vin. 
NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb : 
Take my love, for love will come. 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass: 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you'll love me then; 

Love can love but once a life. 

IX. 

THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet? 
I must take you, and break you. 
And loving hands must part- 
Take, take — break, break - 
Break —you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 

IX". 
AY! 

Be merry, all birds, to-day. 

Be merry on earth as you never were merry 
before. 
Be merry in heaven, O larks and far away, 
-And merry for ever and ever, and one day 
more. 

Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 

Look, look, how he flits. 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, from 
out of the pine! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the 
mad little tits! 
"Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!" was ever a May 
so fine? 

Why? 
For it is easy to find a rhyme. 

O merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrcjw and throstle, 
and have yo;^ desirtT.-, 



O merry my heart, you have gotten the 
wings of love. 
And flit like the king oi the wrens with a 
- crown of fire. 

Why? 
For it"s ay ay ay, ay ay. 

X. 

WHEN? 

Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets. 

Love, fix a day. 

" A year hence, a year hence." 
"We shall both be gray." 

"A month hence, a month hence." 
" Far, far away." 

"A week hence, a week hence." 
"Ah, the long delay." 
•• "Wait a little, wait alittle. 
You shall fix a day." 

" To-morrovv', love, to-morrow. 
And that's an age aA'ay." 

Blaze upon her window, sun. 
And honor all the day. 



XI. 

MARRIAGE MORNIN(}. 

Light, so low upon earth. 
You send a flash to the sun, 

Here is the golden close of love, 
All my wooing is done. 

the woods and the meadows. 
Woods where we hid from the wet, 

Stiles where we stay'd to be kind. 

Meadows in which we met! 
Light, so low in the vale, 

You flash and lighten afar: 
For this is the golden morning of love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I conre. 

By meadow and stile and wood: 

lighten into my eyes and my heart, 
Into my heart and my blood! 

Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires? 
O heart, are you great enough for love? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

1 Over the meadows and stiles, 
]Over the world to the end of it 

1 Flash for a million miles. 



